John Keats (October 31, 1795 - February 23, 1821)
Newport, July 3, 1819
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday
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 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 someone 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 entrammeled 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 do for you at this moment, I do not think I
could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow 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 favors 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. Be as kind as the
distance will permit to your
Present my Compliments to your mother,
my love to Margaret and best remembrances to your Brother—if you please so.
July 8, 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!
Do not accuse me of delay—we have not
here any opportunity of sending letters every day. Write speedily.
July 15, 1819
Shanklin, Thursday Evening
My love—I have been in so irritable a
state of health these two or three last days, that I did not think I should be
able to write this week. Not that I was so ill, but so much so as only to be
capable of an unhealthy teasing letter. Tonight, I am greatly recovered only to
feel the languor I have felt after you touched with ardency.
You say you perhaps might have made me
better: you would then have made me worse: now you could quite effect a cure:
What fee my sweet Physician would I not give you to do so.
Do not call it folly, when I tell you
I took your letter last night to bed with me. In the morning I found your name
on the sealing wax obliterated. I was startled at the bad omen till I
recollected that it must have happened in my dreams, and they you know fall out
by contraries. You must have found out by this time I am a little given to bode
ill like the raven; it is my misfortune not my fault; it has proceeded from the
general tenor of the circumstances of my life and rendered every event
suspicious. However, I will no more trouble either you or myself with sad
prophecies; though so far, I am pleased at it as it has given me opportunity to
love your disinterestedness towards me. I can be a raven no more; you and
pleasure take possession of me at the same moment. I am afraid you have been
unwell. If through me illness have touched you (but it must be with a very
gentle hand) I must be selfish enough to feel a little glad at it. Will you
forgive me this?
I have been reading lately an oriental
tale of a very beautiful color. It is of a city of melancholy men, all made so
by this circumstance. Through a series of adventures each one of them by turns
reach some gardens of Paradise where they meet with a most enchanting Lady; and
just as they are going to embrace her, she bids them shut their eyes they shut
them and on opening their eyes again find themselves descending to the earth in
a magic basket. The remembrance of this Lady and their delights lost beyond all
recovery render them melancholy ever after. How I applied this to you, my dear;
how I palpitated at it; how the certainty that you were in the same world with
myself, and though as beautiful, not so talismanic as that Lady; how I could
not bear you should be so you must believe because I swear it by yourself.
I cannot say when I shall get a volume
ready. I have three or four stories half done, but as I cannot write for the
mere sake of the press, I am obliged to let them progress or lie still as my
fancy chooses. By Christmas perhaps they may appear, but I am not yet sure they
ever will. 'Twill be no matter, for Poems are as common as newspapers and I do
not see why it is a greater crime in me than in another to let the verses of a half-fledged brain tumble into the reading-rooms and drawing-room windows. Rice
has been better lately than usual: he is not suffering from any neglect of his
parents who have for some years been able to appreciate him better than they
did in his first youth and are now devoted to his comfort.
Tomorrow I shall, if my health
continues to improve during the night, take a look farther about the country,
and spy at the parties about here who come hunting after the picturesque like
beagles. It is astonishing how they raven down scenery like children do
sweetmeats. The wondrous Chine here as a very great Lion: I wish I had as many
guineas as there have been spy-glasses in it.
I have been, I cannot tell why, in
capital spirits this last hour. What reason? When I have to take my candle and
retire to a lonely room, without the thought as I fall asleep, of seeing you
tomorrow morning? or the next day, or the next—it takes on the appearance of
impossibility and eternity—I will say a month—I will say I will see you in a
month at most, though no one but yourself should see me; if it be but for an
hour. I should not like to be so near you as London without being continually
with you: after having once more kissed you Sweet I would rather be here alone
at my task than in the bustle and hateful literary chitchat. Meantime you must
write to me as I will every week for your letters keep me alive. My sweet Girl
I cannot speak my love for you.
Good night! And
Ever yours
July 27, 1819
Sunday Night
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 you two 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 of your Letter which hurt me;
you say speaking of Mr. Severn 'but you must be satisfied in knowing that I
admired you much more than your friend.' My dear love, I cannot believe there
ever was or ever could be anything to admire in me especially as far as sight
goes—I cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be admired. You are, I love you;
all I can bring you is a swooning admiration of your Beauty. I hold that place
among Men which snub-nos'd brunettes with meeting eyebrows do among women—they
are trash to me—unless I should find one among them with a fire in her heart
like the one that burns in mine.
You absorb me in spite of myself—you
alone: for I look not forward with any pleasure to what is called being settled
in the world; I tremble at domestic cares—yet for you I would meet them, though
if it would leave you the happier, I would rather die than do so.
I have two luxuries to brood over in
my walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have
possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world: it batters too
much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your
lips to send me out of it. From no others would I take it. I am indeed
astonish'd to find myself so careless of all charms but yours—remembering as I
do the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest with me.
What softer words can I find for you
after this—what it is I will not read. Nor will I say more here, but in a
Postscript answer anything else you may have mentioned in your Letter in so
many words—for I am distracted with a thousand thoughts. I will imagine you
Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
Yours ever, fair Star,
My seal is mark'd like a family tablecloth with my Mother's initial F for Fanny: put between my Father's initials.
You will soon hear from me again. My respectful Compliments to your Mother.
Tell Margaret I'll send her a reef of best rocks and tell Sam I will give him
my light bay hunter if he will tie the Bishop hand and foot and pack him in a
hamper and send him down for me to bathe him for his health with a Necklace of
good snubby stones about his Neck.
Selected Love
Letters to Fanny Brawne | Academy of American Poets
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