Newport, July 3, 1819
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 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… 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 right 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.J.
From John Keats to Fanny Brawne
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