It has been suggested in Keats's biographies that Marianne Jeffrey--one of the Jeffrey sisters that Keats and his brothers got to know when they were living in Devonshire--had a serious crush on Keats. It's fairly certain that he didn't feel the same about her, but legend says that she kept a flame in her heart for him throughout the rest of her life.
Marianne was a bit of a poet, herself, and wrote at least one book of poetry (published in 1830) under her married name of Prowse. A while back I read part of a poem by Marianne that greatly suggests her crush (and his dis-interest). Unfortunately, I can't seem to locate that particular poem, but I found a whole slew of other poems by her on this website:
http://www.unl.edu/Corvey/html/Etexts/Prowse,Marianne/ProwseText.htm
One thing I can say for certain is that she was definitely influenced by Keats's poetry. Here's one of the poems that contains several echos of Keats.
TO AUTUMN.
Though thou art crowned with the vine,
And golden sheaves compose thy seat;
And gentle suns above thee shine,
And mellow fruitage strews thy feet,
To me, thou tellest not of joy,
Thou dost mature, but to destroy.
Though the fond plants that round thee twine,
Glow into crimson at thy touch,
And thou dost paint with hues divine,
‘Tis but the fever's deadly flush;
For where thy brightest tints are shed,
Thy victim's days are numbered.
Those parched leaves – those dying flowers,
Drooping upon the humid earth;
I mark'd them first when vernal showers,
Call'd their young beauties into birth;
And I have watch'd, how, day by day,
Their grace and sweetness wore away.
And yet, I love thy deep blue skies;
The dying glory thou dost throw
O'er the fair earth I've learn'd to prize
Far more than Summer's brighter glow –
Spring – Summer – may deceive, but thou –
There's honesty upon thy brow!
Thou dost not mock us with a tale
Of cloudless suns, and lasting bloom;
Thou dost not hide that Winter pale,
Comes with his train of storms and gloom;
Thou givest thy rich stores, and then
Retirest to thy rest again.
From the cold world I turn to thee,
And as thy fading charms I trace,
I think how pleasant it would be,
To sink with thee in Death's embrace,
Where not the wildest storm that blows,
Could break our sabbath of repose.