Reminds me of the part of Cat's Cradle by Vonnegut where a couple of people in a bar are talking about how scientists have discovered the secret to life, which turns out to be "proteins." If memory serves though, the characters aren't rueful about this fact and resentful toward science for spoiling the mystery of the "rainbow" of life; rather, they're just casually disinterested, as they would be if "scientists" had discovered a planet millions of lightyears away, since all they really know is that the password is "proteins." I think their attitude may be more healthy than Keats's, because if you're going to not understand something, it makes more sense to be indifferent than resentful.