SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHT, THURSDAY.

[Postmark, Newport, 3 July, 1819.]

MY DEAREST LADY:

I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night -'twas too much like one out of Rousseau's "Heloise." I am more reasonable this morning. The morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful girl whom I love so much : for at night, when the lonely day has closed, and the lonely, silent, unmusical chamber is waiting to receive me as into a sepulchre, then believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would not have you see those rhapsodies which I once thought it impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me] either too unhappy or perhaps

a little mad. I am now at a very pleasant cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine. I I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here and breathing and wandering as free as a stag about this beautiful coast if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me. I have never known any unalloy'd happiness for many days together: the death or sickness of some one has always spoilt my hours—and now, when none such troubles oppress me, it is, you must confess, very hard that another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask yourself, my love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately? and do all you can to console me in it-make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me-write the softest words and kiss them, that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: (I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days-three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my fate does not turn up Pam, or at least a Court-card. Though I could centre my happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely — indeed, if I thought you felt as much for me as I

1.

do for you at this moment, I do not think I could restrain myself from seeing you again to-morrow for the delight of one embrace. But no - I must live upon hope and chance. In case of the worst that can happen, I shall still love you—but what hatred shall I have for another! Some lines I read the other day are continually ringing a peal in my

ears:

To see those eyes I prize above mine own
Dart favours on another -

And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar)
Be gently press'd by any but myself—
Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing
It were beyond expression!

J.

Do write immediately. There is no post from this place, so you must address Post-office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know before night I shall curse myself for having sent you so cold a letter; yet it is better to do it as much in my senses as possible. kind as the distance will permit to your

Be as

J. KEATS.

Present my compliments to your mother, my love to Margaret, and best remembrances to your brother-if you please so.

No. 2.

July 8th.

[Postmark, Newport, 10 July, 1819.]

MY SWEET GIRL:

Your letter gave me more delight than anything in the world but yourself could do; indeed I am

almost astonished that any absent one should have
that luxurious power over my senses which I feel.
Even when I am not thinking of you I receive
your influence and a tenderer nature stealing upon
me. All my thoughts, my unhappiest days and
nights, have, I find, not at all cured me of my
love of beauty, but made it so intense that I am
miserable that you are not with me:
or rather
breathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot
be called Life. I never knew before, what such a
love as you have made me feel, was; I did not
believe in it; my fancy was afraid of it, lest it should
burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though
there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we
can bear when moistened and bedewed with pleas-
ures. You mention "horrid people," and ask me
whether it depend upon them whether I see you
again. Do understand me, my love, in this. I have
so much of you in my heart that I must turn mentor
when I see a chance of harm befalling you. I would
never see anything but pleasure in your eyes, love
on your lips, and happiness in your steps. I would
wish to see you among those amusements suitable
to your inclinations and spirits; so that our loves
might be a delight in the midst of pleasures agree-
able enough, rather than a resource from vexations
and cares. But I doubt much, in case of the worst,
whether I shall be philosopher enough to follow my
own lessons: if I saw my resolution give you a pain,
I could not. Why may I not speak of your beauty,
since without that I could never have lov'd you ?—
I cannot conceive any beginning of such love as I

have for you but beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your beauty, though to my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its power. You say you are afraid I shall think you do not love me-in saying this you make me ache the more to be near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here; I do not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; and here I must confess that (since I am on that subject) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a poem, and to be given away by a novel. I have seen your comet, and only wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well, whose illness makes him rather a melancholy companion: and the more so as so to conquer his feelings and hide them from me, with a forc'd pun. I kiss'd your writing over in the hope you had indulg'd me by leaving a trace of honey. What was your dream? Tell it me and I will tell you the interpretation thereof.

Ever yours, my love!

JOHN KEATS.

Do not accuse me of delay-we have not here an opportunity of sending letters every day. Write speedily.