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. 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 entirelyindeed, if I thought you felt as much for me as I 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 - And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar) 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 pleasures. 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 agreeable 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. No. 3. SUNDAY NIGHT. [Postmark, 27 July, 1819.] MY SWEET GIRL: I hope you did not blame me much for not obeying your request of a letter on Saturday: we have had four in our small room playing at cards night and morning, leaving me no undisturb'd opportunity to write. Now Rice and Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown, to my sorrow, confirms the account you give of your ill health. You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour for what is in the world? I say you cannot conceive; it is impossible you should. look with such eyes upon me as I have upon you: it cannot be. Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ'd in a very abstract poem, and I am in deep love with youtwo things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt the letter, as the very next time I saw you I thought you manifested some dislike to me. If you should ever feel for man at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to happen-only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as a man as you are as a woman. Perhaps I am too vehement; then fancy me on my knees, especially when I mention a part |