Shelley's women melt into philosophic mist, or are used to build up a political or social theory, as if they were "properties" of literature.

Cythna, Rosalind, Asia, Emilia are ideas, not realities.
Beatrice is alive, but she was drawn for him in the records of her trial.

Even the woman of his later lyrics soon ceases to be flesh and blood.

Keats let women alone, save in Isabella, and all that is of womanhood in her is derived from Boccaccio.

Madeline is nothing but a picture.