John Keats,poet

2010-06-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:43:00.002-07:00

My dear Shelley, -
I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering hateful manner. Therefore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. I received a copy of the Cenci, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of - the poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have "self-concentration" - selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And is this not extraordinary talk for the writer of Endymion, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk. You must explain my metaphors to yourself. I am in expectation of Prometheus every day. Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not to publish my first-blights, on Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have been published but from a hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now. I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs Shelley.

In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain

most sincerely yours
John Keats

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:43:00.001-07:00

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 undisturbed 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 employed 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 any thing 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-nosed 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 astonished 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,
John Keats

My seal is mark'd like a family table cloth with my Mother's initial F for Fanny: put between my Father's initials. You will soon hear from me again. My respectful Compts 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.

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:42:00.000-07:00

My sweet girl,
Your Letter gave me more delight, than any thing 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 steeling 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 affraid 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 any thing 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 threreof.

Ever yours, my love!
John Keats.

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:41:00.002-07:00

My dear Brother & Sister -
How is it we have not heard from you from the Settlement yet? The Letters must surely have miscarried. I am in expectation every day - Peachey wrote me a few days ago saying some more acquaintances of his were preparing to set out for Birbeck - therefore I shall take the opportunity of sending you what I can muster in a sheet or two - I am still at Wentworth Place - indeed I have kept in doors lately, resolved if possible to rid myself of my sore throat - consequently I have not been to see your Mother since my return from Chichester - but my absence from her has been a great weight upon me. I say since my return from Chichester - I believe I told you I was going thither - I was nearly a fortnight at M^r John Snook's and a few days at old M^r Dilke's - Nothing worth speaking of happened at either place - I took down some of the thin paper and wrote on it a little Poem call'd 'S^t Agnes Eve' - which you shall have as it is when I have finished the blank part of the rest for you. I went out twice at Chichester to old Dowager card parties. I see very little now, and very few Persons - bein almost tired of Men and things. Brown and Dilke are very kind and considerate towards me. The Miss Reynoldses have been stopping next door lately - but all very dull. Miss Brawne and I have every now and then a chat and a tiff. Brown and Dilke are walking roung their Garden hands in Pockets making observations. The Literary world I know nothing about - There is a Poem from Rogers dead born - and another Satire is expected from Byron call'd Don Giovanni - Yesterday I went to town for the first time for these three weeks. I met people from all parts and of all sets - M^r Towers - one of the Holts - M^r Domine Williams - M^r Woodhouse M^rs Hazlitt and Son - M^rs Webb - M^rs Septimus Brown - M^r Woodhouse was looking up at a Bookwindow in newgate street and being short-sighted twisted his Muscles into so queer a stupe that I stood by in doubt whether it was him or his brother, if he has one and turning round saw M^rs Hazlitt with that little Nero her son. Woodhouse on his features subsiding proved to be Woodhouse and not his brother - I have had a little business with M^r Abbey - From time to time he has behaved to me with a little Brusquerie - this hurt me a little especially when I knew him to be the only Man in England who dared to say a thing to me I did not approve of without its being resented or at least noticed - So I wrote him about it and have made an alteration in my favor - I expect from this to see more of Fanny - who has been quite shut out from me. I see Cobbet has been attacking the Settlement - but I cannot tell what to believe - and shall be all out at elbows till I hear from you. I am invited to Miss Millar's Birthday dance on the 19^th I am nearly sure I shall not be able to go - a Dance would injure my throat very much. I see very little of Reynolds. Hunt I hear is going on very badly - I mean in money Matters I shall not be surprised to hear of the worst - Haydon too in consequence of his eyes is out at elbows. I live as prudently as it is possible for me to do. I have not seen Haslam lately - I have not seen Richards for this half year - Rice for three Months or C C. C. for God knows when. When I last called in Henrietta Street - M^rs Millar was verry unwell - Miss Waldegrave as staid and self possessed as usual - Miss Millar was well - Henry was well. There are two new tragedies - one by the Apostate Man, and one by Miss Jane Porter. Next week I am going to stop at Taylor's for a few days when I will see them both and tell you what they are. M^rs and M^r Bentley are well and all the young Carrots. I said nothing of consequence passed at Snook's - no more than this that I like the family very much M^r and M^rs Snook were very kind - we used to have over a little Religiion and politics together almost every evening - and sometimes about you - He proposed writing out for me all the best part of his experience in farming to send to you if I should have an opportunity of talking to him about it I will get all I can at all events - but you may say in your answer to this what value you place upon such information. I have not seen M^r Lewis lately for I have shrunk from going up the hill. M^r Lewis went a few mornings ago to town with M^rs Brawne they talked about me - and I heard that M^r L Said a thing I am not at all contented with - Says he 'O, he is quite the little Poet' now this is abonimable - you might as well say Buonaparte is quite the little Soldier - You see what it is to be under six foot and not a lord - There is a long fuzz to day in the examiner about a young Man who delighted a young woman with a Valentine - I think it must be Ollier's. Brown and I are thinking of passing the summer at Brussels if we do we shall go about the first of May - We i e Brown and I sit opposite one another all day authorizing (N.B. an s. instead of a z would give a different meaning) He is at present writing a Story of an old Woman who lived in a forest and to whom the Devil or one of his Aid de feus came one night very late and in disguise. The old Dame eates before him pudding after pudding - mess after mess - which he devours and moreover casts his eyes up at a side of Bacon hanging over his head and at the same time asks whether her Cat is a Rabbit. On going he leaves her three pips of eve's apple - and some how she, having liv'd a virgin all her life, begins to repent of it and wishes herself beautiful enough to make all the world and even the other world fall in love with her. So it happens - she sets out from her smoaky Cottage in magnificent apparel; the first city she enters every one falls in love with her - from the Prince to the Blacksmith. A young gentleman on his way to the church to be married leaves his unfortunate Bride and follows this nonsuch. A whole regiment of soldiers are smitten at once and follow her. A whole convent of Monks in corpus christi procession join the Soldiers. The Mayor and Corporation follow the same road. Old and young, deaf and dumb - all but the blind are smitten and form an immense concourse of people who - what Brown will do with them I know not. The devil himself falls in love with her flies away with her to a desert place - in consequence of which she lays an infinite number of Eggs. The Eggs being hatched from time to time fill the world with many nuisances such as John Knox - George Fox - Johanna Southcote - Gifford. There have been within a fortnight eight failures of the highest consequence in London - Brown went a few evenings since to Davenport's, and on his coming in he talk'd about bad news in the City with such a face, I began to think of a national Bankruptcy. I did not feel much surprised - and was rather disappointed. Carlisle, a Bookseller on the Home principle has been issuing Pamphlets from his shop in fleet Street called the Deist - he was conveyed to newgate last Thursday - he intends making his own defence. I was surprised to hear from Taylor the amount of Murray the Booksellers last sale - what think you of £25,000? He sold 4000 coppies of Lord Byron. I am sitting opposite the Shakspeare I brought from the Isle of wight - and I never look at it but the silk tassels on it give me as much pleasure as the face of the Poet itself - except that I do not know how you are going on. In my next packet as this is one by the way, I shall send you the Pot of Basil, S^t Agnes eve, and if I should have finished it a little thing call'd the 'eve of S^t Mark' you see what fine mother Radcliff names I have - it is not my fault - I did not search for them - I have not gone on with Hyperion - for to tell the truth I have not been in great cue for writing lately - I must wait for the spring to rouse me up a little - The only time I went out from Bedhampton was to see a Chapel consecrated - Brown and I and John Snook the boy, went in a chaise behind a leaden horse Brown drove, but the horse did not mind him - This Chapel is built by a M^r Way a great Jew converter - who in that line has spent one hundred thousand Pounds. He maintains a great number of poor Jews - Of course his communion plate was stolen - he spoke to the Clerk about it - The Clerk said he was very sorry adding - 'I dare shay your honour its among ush'. The Chapel is built in M^r Way's park - The Consecration was - not amusing - there were numbers of carriages, and his house crammed with Clergy - they sanctified the Chapel - and it being a wet day consecrated the burial ground through the vestry window. I begin to hate Parsons - they did not make me love them that day - when I saw them in their proper colours - A Parson is a Lamb in a drawing room and a lion in a Vestry. The notions of Society will not permit a Parson to give way to his temper in any shape - so he festers in himself - his features get a peculiar diabolical self sufficient iron stupid expression. He is continually acting. His mind is against every Man and every Mans mind is against him. He is an Hippocrite to the Believer and a Coward to the unbeliever - He must be either a Knave or an Ideot. And there is no Man so much to be pitied as an ideot parson. The Soldier who is cheated into an esprit du corps - by a red coat, a Band and Colours for the purpose of nothing - is not half so pitiable as the Parson who is lead absurdities - a poor necessary subaltern of the Church -
[...]
Friday 19^th. Yesterday I got a black eye - the first time I took a Cricket bat. Brown who is always one's friend in a disaster applied a leech to the eyelid, and there is no inflammation this morning though the ball hit me torn on the sight - 'twas a white ball. I am glad it was not a clout. This is the second black eye I have had since leaving school - during all my school days I never had one at all - we must eat a peck before we die - This morning I am in a sort of temper indolent and supremely careless: I long after a stanza or two of Thompson's Castle of indolence. My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fibre all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this side of faintness - if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lillies I should call it langour - but as I am - especially as I have a black eye - I must call it Laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any alertness of counteance as they pass by me: they seem rather like three figures on a greek vase - a Man and two women whom no one but myself could distinguish in their disguisement. This is the only happiness; and is a rare instance of advantage in the body overpowering the Mind. I have this moment received a note from Haslam in which he expects the death of his Father - who has been for some time in a state of insensibility - his mother bears up he says very well - I shall go to town tomorrow to see him. This is the world - thus we cannot expect to give way many hours to pleasure - Circumstances are like Clouds continually gathering and bursting - While we are laughing the seed of some trouble is put into the wide arable land of events - while we are laughing it sprouts it grows and suddenly bears a poison fruit which we must pluck - Even so we have leisure to reason on the misfortunes of our friends; our own touch us too nearly for words. Very few men have ever arrived at a complete disinterestedness of Mind: very few have been influenced by a pure desire of the benefit of others - in the greater part of the Benefactors to Humanity some meretricious motive has sullied their greatness - some melodramatic scenery has fascinated them - From the manner in which I feel Haslam's misfortune I perceive how far I am from any humble standard of disinterestedness - Yet this feeling ought to be carried to its highest pitch as there is no fear of its ever injuring Society - which it would do I fear pushed to an extremity - For in wild nature the Hawk would loose his Breakfast of Robins and the Robin his of Worms - the Lion must starve as well as the swallow. The greater part of Men make their way with the same instinctiveness, the same unwandering eye from their purposes, the same animal eagerness as the Hawk. The Hawk wants a Mate, so does the Man - look at them both they set about it and procure one in the same manner. They want both a nest and they both set about one in the same manner - The noble animal Man for his amusement smokes his pipe - the Hawk balances about the Clouds - that is the only difference of their leisures. This it is that makes the Amusement of Life - to a speculative Mind. I go among the Fields and catch a glimpse of a Stoat or a fieldmouse peeping out of the withered grass - the creature hath a purpose and its eyes are bright with it. I go amongst the buildings of a city and I see a Man hurrying along - to what? the Creature has a purpose and his eyes are bright with it. But then, as Wordsworth says, «we have all one human heart" - there is an ellectric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human cratures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it: as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish. I have no doubt that thousands of people never heard of have had hearts completely disinterested: I can remember but two - Socrates and Jesus - That he was so great a man that though he transmitted no writing of his own to posterity, we have his Mind and his sayings and his greatness handed to us by others. It is to be lamented that the histroy of the latter was written and revised by Men interested in the pious frauds of Religion. Yet through all this I see his splendour. Even here though I myself am pursueing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of - I am however young writing at random - straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness - without knowing the bearing of any one assertion of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin? May there not be superior being amused with any graceful, though instinctive attitude my mind may fall into, as I am entertained with the alertness of a Stoat or the anxiety of a Deer? Though a quarrel in the Streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest Man shows a grace in his quarrel - By a superior being our reasonings may take the same tone - though erroneous they may be fine - This is the very thing in which consists poetry; and if so it is not so fine a thing as philosophy - For the same reason that an eagle is not so fine a thing as a truth - Give me this credit - Do you not think I strive - to know myself? Give me this credit - and you will not think that on my own account I repeat Milton's lines

« How charming is divine Philosophy
Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose
But musical as is Apollo's lute» -

No - not for myself - feeling grateful as I do to have got into a state of mind to relish them properly - Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced - Even a Proverb is no proverb to you till your Life hast illustrated it. I am ever affraid that your anxiety for me will lead you to fear for the violence of my temperament continually smothered down: for that reason I did not intend to have sent you the following sonnet - but look over the two last pages and ask yourselves whether I have not that in me which will well bear the buffets of the world. It will be the best comment on my sonnet; it will show you that it was written with no Agony but that of ignorance; with no thirst of any thing but Knowledge when pushed to the point though the first steps to it were through my human passions - they went away, and I wrote with my Mind - and perhaps I must confess a little bit of my heart -

Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell:
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once.
Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone;
I say, why did I laugh! O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease,
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indead,
But Death intenser - Death is Life's high meed.

I went to bed, and enjoyed an uninterrupted Sleep - Sane I went to bed and sane I arose. God bless you, Love.
[...]
You must let me know every thing, how parcels go and come, what papers you have, and what Newspapers you want, and other things. God bless you my dear Brother and Sister.

Your ever affectionate Brother
John Keats -

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:41:00.001-07:00

My dear Woodhouse,
Your Letter gave me a great satisfaction; more on account of its friendliness, than any relish of that matter in it which is accounted so acceptable in the 'genus irritabile'. The best answer I can give you is in a clerk-like manner to make some observations on two princple points, which seem to point like indices into the midst of the whole pro and con, about genius, and views and achievements and ambition and cetera. 1^st. As to the poetical Character itself (I mean that sort of which, if I am any thing, I am a Member; that sort distinguished from the wordsworthian or egotistical sublime; which is a thing per se and stands alone) it is not itself - it has no self - it is every thing and nothing - It has no character - it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated - It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the camelion Poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things any more than from its taste for the bright one; because they both end in speculation. A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity - he is continually in for - and filling some other Body - The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute - the poet has none; no identity - he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's Creatures. If then he has no self, and if I am a Poet, where is the Wonder that I should say I would write no more? Might I not at that very instant have been cogitating on the Characters of Saturn and Ops? It is a wretched thing to confess; but is a very fact that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical nature - how can it, when I have no nature? When I am in a room with People if I ever am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then not myself goes home to myself: but the identity of every one in the room begins so to press upon me that I am in a very little time annihilated - not only among Men; it would be the same in a Nursery of children: I know not whether I make myself wholly understood: I hope enough so to let you see that no despondence is to be placed on what I said that day.
In the second place I will speak of my views, and of the life I purpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be spared that may be the work of maturer years - in the interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in Poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint conceptions I have of Poems to come brings the blood frequently into my forehead. All I hope is that I may not lose all interest in human affairs - that the solitary indifference I feel for applause even from the finest Spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do not think it will - I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the Beautiful even if my night's labours should be burnt every morning, and no eye ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself: but from some character in whose soul I now live. I am sure however that this next sentence is from myself. I feel your anxiety, good opinion and friendliness in the highest degree, and am

Your's most sincerely
John Keats

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

My dear George, -
There was a part in your Letter which gave me a great deal of pain, that where you lament not receiving Letters from England - I intended to have written immediately on my return from Scotland (which was two Months earlier than I had intended on account of my own as well as Tom' health) but then I was told by Mrs. W that you had said you would not wish any one to write till we had heard from you. This I thought odd and now I see that it could not have been so; yet at the time I suffered my unreflection head to be satisfied and went on in that sort of abstract careless and restless Life with which you are well acquainted. This sentence should it give you any uneasiness do not let it last for before I finish it will be explained away to your satisfaction -
I am grieved to say that I am not sorry you had not Letters at Philadelphia; you could have had no good news of Tom and I have been withheld on his account from beginning these many days; I could not bring myself to say the truth, that he is no better but much worse - However it must be told and you must my dear Brother and Sister take example from me and bear up against any Calamity for my sake as I do for your's. Our's are ties which independent of their own Sentiment are sent us by providence to prevent the deleterious effects of one great, solitary grief. I have Fanny and I have you - three people whose Happiness to me is sacred - and it does annul that selfish sorrow which I should otherwise fall into, living as I do with poor Tom who looks upon me as his only comfort - the tears will come into your Eyes - let them - and embrace each other - thank heaven for what happiness you have and after thinking a moment or two that you suffer in common with all Mankind hold it not a Sin to regain your cheerfullness -
I will relieve you of one uneasiness of overleaf: I returned I said on account of my health - I am now well from a bad sore throat which came of bog trotting in the Island of Mull - of which you shall hear by the coppies I shall make from my Scotch Letters -
Your content in each other is a delight to me which I cannot express - the Moon is now shining full and brilliant - she is the same to me in Matter, what you are to me in Spirit - If you were here my dear Sister I could not pronounce the words which I can write to you from a distance; I have a tenderness for you, and an admiration which I feel to be as great and more chaste than I can have for any woman in the world. You will mention Fanny - her character is not formed, her identity does not press upon me as yours does. I hope from the bottom of my heart that I may one day feel as much for her as I do for you - I know not how it is, but I have never made any acquaintance of my own - nearly all through your medium my dear Brother - through you I know not only a Sister but a glorious human being - And now I am talking of those to whom you have made me known I cannot forbear mentioning Haslam as a most kind and obliging and constant friend - His behaviour to Tom during my absence and since my return has endeared him to me for ever - besides his anxiety about you. Tomorrow I shall call on your Mother and exchange information with her - On Tom's account I have not been able to pass so much time with her as I would otherwise have done - I have seen her but twice - once I dined with her and Charles - She was well, in good Spirits and I kept her lauging at my bad jokes - We went to tea at Mrs. Millar's and in going were particularly struck with the light and shade through the Gate way at the Horse Guards. I intend to write you such Volumes that it will be impossible for me to keep any order or method in what I write: that will come first which is uppermost in Mind, not that which uppermost in my heart - besides I should wish to gove you a picture of our Lives here whenever by a touch I can do it; even as you must see by the last sentence our walk past Whitehall all in good health and spirits - this I am certain of, because I felt so much pleasure from the simple idea of your playing a game at Cricket - At Mrs. Millars I saw Henry quite well - there was Miss Keasle - and the good-natured Miss Waldegrave - Mrs. Millar began a long story and you know it is her Daughter's way to help her on as though her tongue were ill of the gout - Mrs. M. certainly tells a Story as though she had been taught her Alphabet in Crutched Friars. Dilke has been very unwell; I found him very ailing on my return - he was under Medical care for some time, and then went to the Sea Side whence he has returned well - Poor little Mrs. D - has had another gall-stone attack; she was well ere I returned - she is now at Brighton - Dilke was greatly pleased to hear from you and will write a Letter for me to enclose - He seems greatly desirous of hearing from you of the Settlement itself - I came by ship from Inverness and was nine days at Sea without being Sick - a little Qualm now and then put me in mind of you - however as soon as you touch the shore all the horrors of Sickness are soon forgotten; as was the case with a Lady on board who could not hold her head up all the way. We had not been in the Thames an hour before her tongue began to some tune; paying off as it was fit she should all old scores. I was the only Englishman on board. There was a downright Scotchman who hearing that there had been a bad crop of Potatoes in England had brought some triumphant Specimens from Scotland - these he exhibited with national pride to all the Lightermen and Watermen from the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon beef all the way; not being able to eat the thick Porridge which the Ladies managed to manage with large awkward horn spoons into the bargain. Severn has had a narrow escape of his Life from a Typhous fever: he is now gaining strength - Reynolds has returned from a six weeks enjoyment in Devonshire, he is well and persuades me to publish my pot of Basil as an answer to the attacks made on me in Blackwood's Magazine and the Quarterly Review. There have been two Letters in my defence in the Chronicle and one in the Examiner, coppied from the Alfred Exeter paper and written by Reynolds - I do not know who wrote those in the Chronicle - This is a mere matter of the moment - I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death. Even as a Matter of present interest the attempt to crush me in the Quarterly has only brought me more into notice and it is a common expression among book men "I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own throat.'
It does me not the least harm in Society to make me appear little and rediculous: I know when a Man is superior to me and give him all due respect - he will be the last to laugh at me and as for the rest I feel that I make am impression upon them which insures me personal respect while I am in sight whatever they may say when my back is turned - Poor Haydon's eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his picture - he has been in the Country - I have seen him but once since my return - I hurry matters together here because I do not know when the Mail sails - I shall enquire tomorrow and then shall know whether to be particular or general in my letter - you shall have at least two sheets a day till it does sail whether it be three days or a fortnight - and then I will begin a fresh one for the next Month. The Miss Reynoldses are very kind to me - but they have lately displeased me much and in this way - Now I am coming the Richardson. On my return the first day I called they were in a sort of taking or bustle about a Cousin of theirs who having fallen out with her Grandpapa in a serious manner was invited by Mrs. R- to take Asylum in her house - She is an east indian and ought to be her Grandfather's Heir. At the time I called Mrs. R. was in conference with her up stairs and the young Ladies were warm in her praises down stairs calling her genteel, interesting and a thousand other pretty things to which I gave no heed, not being partial to 9 days wonders - Now all is completely changed - they hate her; and from what I hear she is not without faults - of a real kind: but she has others which are more apt to make women of inferior charms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but she is at least a Charmian. She has a rich eastern look; she has fine eyes and fine manners. When she comes into a room she makes an impression the same as the Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine and too conscious of her Self to repulse any Man who may address her - from habit she thinks that nothing particular. I always find myself more at ease with such a woman; the picture before me always gives me a life and animation which I cannot possibly feel with any thing inferior - I am at such times too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or on a tremble. I forget myself entirely because I live in her. You will by this time think I am in love with her; so before I go any further I will tell you I am not - she kept me awake one Night as a tune of Mozart's might do - I speak of the thing as a passtime and an amuzement than which I can feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman the very 'yes' and 'no' of whose Lips is to me a Banquet. I dont cry to take the moon home with me in my Pocket nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her and her like because one has no sensations - what we both are is taken for granted - You will suppose I have by this had much talk with her - no such thing - there are the Miss Reynoldses on the look out - They think I dont admire her because I did not stare at her - They call her a flirt to me - What a want of Knowledge? She walks across a room in such a manner that a Man is drawn towards her with magnetic Power. This they call flirting! they do not know things. They do not know what a Woman is. I believe tho' she has faults - the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she is a fine thing speaking in a worldly way: for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things - the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and etherical - in the former Buonaparte, Lord Byron and this Charmian hold the first place in our Minds; in the latter John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child's cradle and you my dear Sister are the conquering feelings. As a Man in the world I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an eternal Being I love the thought of you. I should like her to ruin me, and I should like you to save me. Do not think my dear Brother from this that my Passions are headlong or likely to be ever of any pain to you - no

"I am free from Men of Pleasure's cares,
By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs"

This is Lord Byron, and is one of the finest things he has said - I have no town talk for you, as I have not been much among people - as for Politics they are in my opinion only sleepy because they will soon be too wide awake - Perhaps not - for the long and continued Peace of England itself has given us notions of personal safety which are likely to prevent the re-establishment of our national Honesty - There is of a truth nothing manly or sterling in any part of the Government. There are many Madmen in the Country, I have no doubt, who would like to be beheaded on tower Hill merely for the sake of eclat, there are many Men like Hunt who from a principle of taste would like to see things go on better, there are many like Sir F. Burdett who like to sit at the head of political dinners - but there are none prepared to suffer in obscurity for their Country - the motives of our worst Men are interest and of our best Vanity - We have no Milton, no Algernon Sidney - Governers in these days loose the title of Man in exchange for that of Diplomat and Minister We breathe in a sort of Officinal Atmosphere - All the departments of Government have strayed far from Spimpicity which is the gratest of Strength - there is as much difference in this respect between the present government and Oliver Cromwell's as there is between the 12 Tables of Rome and the volumes of Civil Law which were digested by Justinian. A Man now entitled Chancellor has the same honour paid to him whether he be a Hog or a Lord Bacon. No sensation is created by Greatness but by the number of orders a Man has at his Button holes Notwithstanding the part which the Liberals take in the Cause of Napoleon I cannot but think he has done more harm to the life of Liberty than any one else could have done: not that the divine right Gentlemen have done or intend to do any good - no they have taken a Lesson of him and will do all the further harm he would have done without any of the good - The worst thing he has done is, that he has taught them how to organize their monstrous armies - The Emperor Alexander it is said intends to divide his Empire as did Diocletian - creating two Czars besides himself, and continuing the supreme Monarch of the whole - Should he do this and they for a series of Years keep peacable to China - I think it a very likely thing that China itself may fall Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile european north Russia will hold its horns against the rest of Europe, intrieguing constantly with France. Dilke, whom you know to be a Godwin perfectibility Man, pleases himself with the idea that America will be the country to take up the human intellect where england leaves off - I differ there with him greatly - A country like the united states whose greatest Men are Franklins and Washingtons will never do that - They are great Men doubtless but how are they to be compared to those our countreymen Milton and the two Sidneys - The one is a philosophical Quaker full of mean and thrifty maxims the other sold the very Charger who had taken him through all his Battles. Those Americans are great but they are not sublime Man - the humanity of the United States can never reach the sublime - Birkbeck's mind is too much in the American Stryle - you must endeavour to infuse a little Spirit of another sort into the Settlement, always with great caution, for thereby you may do your descendents more good than you may imagine. If I had a prayer to make for any great good, next to Tom's recovery, it should be that one of your Children should be the first American Poet. I have a great mind to make a prophecy and they say prophecies work out their own fullfillment -

'tis 'the witching time of night'
Orbed is the Moon and bright
And the Stars they glisten, glisten
Seeming with bright eyes to listen
For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm
See they glisten in alarm
And the Moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall say.
Moon keep wide thy golden ears
Hearken Stars, and hearken Spheres
Hearken thou eternal Sky
I sing an infant's lullaby
A pretty Lullaby!
Listen, Listen, listen, listen
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten
And hear my lullaby?
Though the Rushes that will make
Its cradle still are in the lake:
Though the linnen then that will be
Its swathe is on the cotton tree;
Though the wollen that will keep
It warm, is on the sille sheep;
Listen Stars light, listen, listen,
Glisten, Glisten, glisten, glisten
And hear my lullaby!
Child! I see thee! Child I've found thee!
Midst of the quiet all around thee!
Child I see thee! Childe I spy thee
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!-
Child I know thee! Child no more
But a Poet evermore
See, See the Lyre, the Lyre
In a flame of fire
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring
Past the eyesight's bearing -
Awake it from its sleep
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze.
Amaze! Amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares
It dares what no one dares
If lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharm'd, and on the strings
Paddles a little tune and sings
With dumb endeavour sweetly!
Bard art thou completely!
Little Child
O' the western wild
Bard art thou completely!-
Sweetly with dumb endeavour -
A Poet now or never!
Little Child
O' the western wild
A Poet now or never!

This is friday, I know not what day of the Month - I will enquire tomorrow for it is fit you should know the time I am writing. I went to Town yesterday, and calling at Mrs. Millar's was told that your Mother would not be found at home - I met Henry as I turned the corner - I had no leisure to return, so I left the letters with him - He was looking very well. Poor Tom is no better to-night - I am affraid to ask him what Message I shall send from him - And here I could go on complaining of my Misery, but I will keep myself cheerfull for your Sakes. With a great deal of trouble I have succeeded in getting Fanny to Hampstead - She has been several times. Mr. Lewis has been very kind to Tom all the Summer there has scarce a day passed but he has visited him, and not one day without bringing or sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He has been very assiduous in his enquiries after you. It would give the old Gentleman a great pleasure if you would send him a Sheet enclosed in the next parcel to me, after you receive this - how long it will be first - Why did I not write to Philadelphia? Really I am sorry for that neglect - I wish to go on writing ad infinitum, to you - I wish for interresting matter, and a pen as swift as the wind - But the fact is I go so little into the Crowd now that I have nothing fresh and fresh every day to speculate upon, except my own Whims and Theories. I have been but once to Haydon's, once to Hung's, once to Rice's, once to Hesse's. I have not seen Taylor, I have not been to the Theatre - Now if I had been many times to all these and was still in the habit of going I could on my return at night have each day something new to tell you of without any stop - But now I have such a dearth that when I get to the end of this sentence and to the bottom of this page I must wait till I can find something interesting to you before I begin another.- After all it is not much matter what it may be about; for the very words from such a distance penned by this hand will be grateful to you - even though I were to coppy out the tale of Mother Hubbard or Little Red Riding Hood - I have been over to Dilke's this evening - there with Brown we have been talking of different and indifferent Matters - of Euclid, of Metaphisics of the Bible, of Shakspeare, of the horrid System and consequences of the fagging at great Schools - I know not yet how large a parcel I can send - I mean by way of Letters - I hope there can be no objection to my dowling up a quire made into a small compass - That is the manner in which I shall write. I shall send you more than Letters - I mean a tale - which I must begin on account of the activity on my Mind; of its inability to remain at rest. It must be prose and not very exciting. I must do this because in the way I am at present situated I have too many interruptions to a train of feeling to be able to write Poetry - So I shall write this Tale, and if I think it worth while get a duplicate made before I send it off to you -
This is a fresh beginning the 21st October. Charles and Henry were with us on Sunday and they brought me your Letter to your Mother - we agreed to get a Packet off to you as soon as possible. I shall dine with your Mother tomorrow, when they have promised to have their Letters ready. I shall send as soon as possible without thinking of the little you may have from me in the first parcel, as I intend as I said before to begin another Letter of more regular information. Here I want to communicate so largely in a little time that I am puzzled where to direct my attention. Haslam has promised to let me know from Capper and Hazlewood. For want of something better I shall proceed to give you some extracts from my Scotch Letters - Yet now I think on it why not send you the letters themselves - I have three of them at present. I believe Haydon has two which I will get in time. I dined with your Mother & Henry at Mrs. Millar's on thursday when they gave me their Letters Charles's I have not yet - he has promised to send it. The thought of sending my scotch Letters has determined me to enclose a few more which I have received and which will give you the best clue to how I am going on better than you could otherwise know - Your Mother was well and I was sorry I could not stop later. I called on Hunt yesterday - it has been always my fate to meet Ollier there - On thursday I walked with Hazlitt as far as covent Garden: he was going to play Rackets - I think Tom has been rather better these few last days - he has been less nervous. I expect Reynolds tomorrow Since I wrote thus far I have met with that same Lady again, whom I saw at Hastings and whom I met when we were going to the English Opera. It was in a Street which goes from Bedford Row to Lamb's Conduit Street - I passed her and turned back - she seemed glad of it; glad to see me and not offended at my passing her before. We walked on towards Islington where we called on a friend of her's who keeps a Boarding School. She has always been an enigma to me - she has been in a Room with you and with Reynolds and wishes we should be acquainted without any of our common acquaintance knowing it. As we went along, some times through shabby, sometimes through decent Streets I had my guessing at wort, not knowing what it would be and prepared to meet any surprise - First it ended at this House at Islington: on parting from which I pressed to attend her home. She consented, and then again my thoughts were at work what it might lead to, tho' now they had received a sort of genteel hint from the Boarding School. Our Walk ended in 34 Gloucester Street, Queen Square - not exactly so for we went up stairs into her sitting room - a very tasty sort of place with Books, Pictures a bronze statue of Buonaparte, Music, aeolian Harp; a Parrot, a Linnet - a Case of choice Liqueurs &c. &c. &c. She behaved in the kindest manner - made me take home a Grouse for Tom's dinner - Asked for my address for the purpose of sending more game - As I had warmed with her before and kissed her - I thought it would be living backwards not to do so again - she had a better taste: she perceived how much a thing of course it was and shrunk from it - not in a prudish way but in as I say a good taste. She contrived to disappoint me in a way which made me feel more pleasure than a simple Kiss could do - She said I should please her much more if I would only press her hand and go away. Whether she was in a different disposition when I saw her before - or whether I have in fancy wrong'd her I cannot tell. I expect to pass some pleasant hours with her now and then: in which I feel I shall be of service to her in matters of knowledge and taste: if I can I will. I have no libidinous thought about her - she and your George are the only women à peu près de mon age whom I would be content to know for their mind and friendship alone. I shall in a short time write you as far as I know how I intend to pass my Life - I cannot think of those things now Tom is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding your Happiness and your recommendation I hope I shall never marry. Though the most beautiful Creature were waiting for me at the end of a Journey or a Walk; though the Carpet were of Silk, the Curtains of the morning Clouds; the chairs and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet's down; the food Manna, the Wine beyond Claret, the Window opening on Winander mere, I should not feel - or rather my Happiness would not be so fine, as my Solitude is sublime. Then instead of what I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me home - The roaring of the wind is my wife and the Stars through the window pane are my Children. The mighty abstract Idea I have of Beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness - an amiable wife and sweet Children I contemplate as a part of that Beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds - No sooner am I alone than shapes of epic greatness are stationed around me, and serve my Spirit the office which is equivalent to a King's bodyguard - then "Tragedy with scepter'd pall comes sweeping by." According to my state of mind I am with Achilles shouting in the Trenches or with Theocritus in the Vales of Sicily. Or I throw my whole being into Troilus, and repeating those lines, "I wander like a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying for waftage," I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate that I am content to be alone. These things, combined with the opinion I have of the generality of women - who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, form a barrier against Matrimony which I rejoice in. I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest pleasures and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only thing that can ever effect me personally for more than one short passing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry - I seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none. I am as happy as a Man can be - that is in myself I should be happy if Tom was well, and I knew you were passing pleasant days - Then I should be most enviable - with the yearning Passion I have for the beautiful, connected and made one with the ambition of my intellect. Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world - there I am a child - there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance - I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child - Some think me middling, others silly, other foolish - every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will - I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so graet a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipese from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet - I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species; and though it may sound paradoxical: my greatest elevations of Soul leave me every time more humbled - Enough of this - though in your Love for me you will not think it enough. Haslam has been here this morning, and has taken all the Letters except this sheet, which I shall send him by the Twopenny, as he will put the Parcel in the Boston post Bag by the advice of Capper and Hazlewood, who assure him of the safety and expedition that way - the Parcel will be forwarded to Warder and thence to you all the same. There will be not a Philadelphia Ship for these six weeks - by that time I shall have another Letter to you. Mind you I mark this Letter A. By the time you will receive this you will have I trust passed through the greatest of your fatigues. As it was with your Sea sickness I shall not hear of them till they are past. Do not set to your occupation with too great an anxiety - take it calmly - and let your health be the prime consideration. I hope you will have a Son, and it is one of my first wishes to have him in my Arms - which I will do please God before he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather more easy than he has been: but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of these Matters - indeed it is the care I have had to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too acute that has made this Letter so short a one - I did not like to write before him a Letter he knew was to reach your hands - I cannot even now ask him for any Message - his heart speaks to you - Be as happy as you can. Think of me and for my sake be cheerful. Believe me my dear Brother and Sister

Your anxious and affectionate Brother
John

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

My dear Tom,
I have not been able to keep up my journal completely on account of other letters to George and one which I am writing to Fanny from which I have turned to loose no time whilst Brown is coppying a song about Meg Merrilies which I have just written for her - We are now in Meg Merrilies county and have this morning passed through some parts exactly suited to her - Kirkcudbright County is very beautiful, very wild with craggy hills somewhat in the westmoreland fashion - We have come down from Dumfries to the Sea Coast part of it - The song I mention you would have from Dilke: but perhaps you would like it here -

Old Meg she was a Gipsey
And liv'd upon the Moors;
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o'Broom,
Her wine was dew o' the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees -
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No Breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon;
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every Morn, of wood bine fresh
She made her garlanding;
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore
A chip hat had she on -
God rest her aged bones somewhere
She died full long agone!
______________

Now I will return to Fanny - it rains. I may have time to go on here presently. July 5 - You see I have missed a day from Fanny's Letter. Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright - the Country is very rich - very fine and with a little of Devon - I am now writing at Newton Suart six Miles into Wigton - Our Landlady of yesterday said very few Southrens passed these ways. The children jabber away as in a foreign Language - The barefooted Girls look very much in keeping - I mean with the Scenery about them. Brown praises their cleanliness and appearance of comfort - the neatness of their cottages etc it may be - they are very squat among trees and fern and heaths and broom, on levels, slopes and heights - They are very pleasant because they are very primitive - but I wish they were as snug as those up the Devonshire vallies. We are lodged and entertained in great varieties - we dined yesterday on dirty bacon dirtier eggs and dirtiest Potatoes with a slice of Salmon - we breakfast this morning in a nice carpeted Room with Sofa hair bottomed chairs and green-baized mehogany - A spring by the road side is always welcome - we drink water for dinner diluted with a Gill of whiskey. July 7^th Yesterday Morning we set out from Glenluce going some distance roung to see some Ruins - they were scarcely worth the while - we went on towards Stranrawier in a burning Sun and had gone about six Miles when the Mail overtook us - we got up - were at Portpatrick in a jiffy, and I am writing now in little Ireland - The dialect on the neighbouring shores of Scotland and Ireland is much the same - yet I can perceive a great difference in the nations from the Chambermaid at this nate Inn kept by M^r kelly. She is fair, kind and ready to laugh, because she is out of the horrible dominion of the Scotch Kirk. A Scotch Girl stands in terrible awe of the Elders - poor little Susannas - They will scarcely laugh - they are greatly to be pitied and the Kirk is greatly to be damn'd. These Kirkmen have done Scotland good. They have made men, women, old men, young men, old women, young women, hags, girls, and infants, all careful; so they are formed into regular phalanges of savers and gainers - such a thrifty army cannot fail to enrich their Country and give it a greater appearance of comfort than that of their poor irish neighbours - These Kirk-men have done Scotland harm; they have banished puns and laughing and Kissing (except in cases where the very danger and crime must make it very fine and gustful. I shall make a full stop at Kissing for after that there should be a better parent hesis: and go on to remind you of the fate of Burns. Poor unfortunate fellow - his disposition was Southern - how sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defence to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and not in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things which are not. No Man in such matters will be content with the experience of others - It is true that out of suffrance there is no greatness, no dignity; that in the most abstracted Pleasure there is no lasting happiness: yet who would not like to discover over again that Cleopatra was a Gipsey, Helen a Rogue and Ruth a deep one? I have not sufficient reasoning faculty to settle the doctrine of thrift - as it is consistent with the dignity of human Society - with the happiness of Cottagers - All I can do is by plump contrasts - Were the fingers made to squeeze a guinea or a white hand? Were the Lips made to hold a pen or a Kiss? and yet in Cities Man is shut out from his fellows if he is poor, the Cottager must be dirty and very wretched if she be not thrifty - The present state of society demands this and this convinces me that the world is very young and in a very ignorant state - We live in a barbarous age. I would sooner be a wild deer than a Girl under the dominion of the Kirk, and I would sooner be a wild hog than be the occasion of a Poor Creatures pennance before those execrable elders. It is not so far to the Giant's Cause way as we supposed - we thought it 70, and hear it is only 48 Miles - so we shall leave one of our Knapsacks here at Donoghadee, take our immediate wants and be back in a week - when we shall proceed to the County of Ayr. In the Packet Yesterday we heard some Ballads from two old Men - one was a romance which seemed very poor - then there was the Battle of the Boyne - then Robin Huid as they call him - 'Before the king you shall go, go, go, before the King you shall go'. There were no Letters for me at Port Patrick so I am behind hand with you I dare say in news from George. Direct to Glasgow till the 17^th of this month.
9^th We stopped very little in Ireland and that you may not have leisured to marvel at our speedy return to Port Patrick I will tell you that is it as dear living in Ireland as at the Hummums - thrice the expence of Scotland - it would have cost us £15 before our return - Moreover we found those 48 Miles to be irish ones which reach to 70 english - So having walked to Belfast one day and back to Donoghadee the next we left Ireland with a fair breeze - We slept last night at Port Patrick where I was gratified by a letter from you. On our walk in Ireland we had too much opportunity to see the worse than nakedness, the rags, the dirt and misery of the poor common Irish - A Scotch cottage, though in that sometimes the Smoke has no exit but at the door, is a pallace to an irish one. We could observe that impetiosity in Man Boy and Woman. We had the pleasure of finding our way through a Peat-Bog - three miles long at least - dreary, black, dank, flat and spongy: here and there were poor dirty creatures and a few strong men cutting or carting peat. We heard on passing into Belfast through a most wretched suburb that most disgusting of all noises worse than the Bag pipe, the laugh of a Monkey, the chatter of women solus the scream of a Macaw - i mean the sound of the Shuttle. What a trememdous difficulty is the improvement of the condition of such people. I cannot conceive how a mind 'with child' of Philanthropy could grasp at possibility - with me it is absolute despair. At a miserable house of entertainment half way between Donaghadee and Belfast were two Men sitting at Whiskey - one a Laborer and the other I took to be a drunken Weaver - The Laborer took mee for a Frenchman and the other hinted at Bounty Money saying he was ready to take it. On calling for the Letters at Port Patrick the man snapp'd out 'what Regiment'? On our return from Bellfast we met a Sadan - the Duchess of Dunghill - It is no laughing matter tho - Imagine the worst dog kennel you ever saw placed upon two poles from a mouldy fencing. In such a wretched thing sat a squalid old Woman squat like an ape half starved from a scarcity of Buiscuit in its passage from Madagascar to the cape, - with a pipe in her mouth and looking out with a sort of horizontal idiotic movement of her head - squab and lean she sat and puff'd out the smoke while two ragged tattered Girls carried her along. What a thing would be a history of her Life and sensations. I shall endeavour when I know more and have thought a little more, to give you my ideas of the difference between the scotch and irish - The two Irishmen I mentioned were speaking of their treatment in England when the Weaver said - 'Ah you were a civil Man but I was a drinker' Remember me to all - I intend writing to Haslam - but dont tell him for fear I should delay - We left a notice at Portpatrick that our Letters should be thence forwarded to Glasgow - Our quick return from Ireland will occasion our passing Glasgow sooner than we thought - so till further notice you must direct to Inverness

Your most affectionate Brother John -

Remember me to the Bentleys

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

My dear Reynolds

What I complain of is that I have been in so an uneasy a state of Mind as not to be fit to write to an invalid. I cannot write to any length under a disguised feeling. I should have loaded you with an addition of gloom, which I am sure you do not want. I am now thank God in a humour to give you a good groats worth - for Tom, after a Night without a Wink of sleep, and overburdened with fever, has got up after a refreshing day sleep and is better than he has been for a long time; and you I trust have been again round the Common without any effect but refreshment. - As to the Matter I hope I can say with Sir Andrew: "I have matter enough in my head" in your favor. And now, in the second place, for I reckon that I have finished my Imprimis, I am glad you blow up the weather all through your letter there is a leaning towards a climate-curse, and you know what a delicate satisfaction there is in having a vexation anathematized: one would think there has been growing up for these last four thousand years, a grandchild Scion of the old forbidden tree, and that some modern Eve had just violated it; and that there was come with double charge

"Notus and Afer, black with thunderous clouds
From Sierraleona.'"

I shall breathe worsted stockings sooner than I thought for - Tom wants to be in town - we will have some such days upon the heath like that of last summer - and why not with the same book: or what say you to a black-Letter Chaucer printed in 1596: aye I've got one huzza! I shall have it bounden gothique - a nice combre binding - it will go a little way to unmodernize. And also I see no reason, because I have been away this last month, why I should not have a peep at your Spencerian - notwithstanding you speak of your office, in my thought a little too early, for I do not see why a Mind like yours is not capable of harbouring and digesting the whole Mystery of Law as easily as Parson Hugh does Pepins - which did not hinder him from his poetic Canry - Were I to study physic or rather Medicine again, I feel it would not make the least difference in my Poetry; when the Mind is in its infancy a Bias is in reality a Bias, but when we have acquired more strength, a Bias becomes no Bias. Every department of Knowledge we see excellent and calculated towards a great whole. I am so convinced of this, that I am glad at not having given away my medical Books, which I shall again look over to keep alive the little I know thitherwards; and moreover intend through you and Rice to become a sort of pip-civilian. An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people - it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the Burden of the Mystery: a thing I begin to understand a little, and which weighed upon you in the most gloomy and true sentence in your Letter. The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all the horror of a bare shouldered creature - in the former case, our shoulders are fledge, and we go thro' the same air and space without fear. This is running one's rigs on the score of abstracted benefit - when we come to human Life and the affections it is impossible to know how a parallel of breast and head can be drawn - (you will forgive me for thus privately treading out of my depth, and take it for treading as schoolboys tread the water) - It is impossible to know how far Knowledge will console us for the death of a friend and the ill "that flesh is heir to" - With respect to the affections and Poetry you must know by a sympathy my thoughts that way; and I dare say these few lines will be but a ratification: I wrote them on May-day - and intend to finish the ode all in good time. -

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou was hymned on the shores of Baiæ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilan? or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By Bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O give me their old vigou, and unheard,
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span
Of Heaven and few ears
Rounded by thee My song should die away
Content as theirs
Rich in the simple worship of a day. -

You may be anxious to know for fact to what sentence in your Letter I allude. You say "I fear there is little chance of any thing else in life". you seem by that to have been going through with a more painful and acute zest the same labyrinth that I have - I have come to the same conclusions thus far. My Branchings out therefrom have been numerous: one of them is the consideration of Wordsworth's genius and as a help, in the manner of gold being the meridian Line of worldly wealth, - how he differs from Milton. - And here I have nothing but surmises, from an uncertainty whether Miltons apparently less anxiety for Humanity proceeds from his seeing further or no than Wordsworth: And whether Wordsworth has in truth epic passion, and martyrs himself to the human heart, the main region of his song - In regard to his genius alone - we find what he says true as far as we have experienced and we can judge no further but by larger experience - for axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses: We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the Author. - I know this is not plain; you will know exactly my meaning when I say, that now I shall relish Hamlet more than I ever have done - Or, better - You are sensible no Man can set down Venery as a bestial or joyless thing until he is sick of it and therefore all philosophizing on it would be mere wording. Until we are sick, we understand not; in fine, as Byron says, "Knowledge is Sorrow"; and I go on to say that "Sorrow is Wisdom" - and further for aught we can know for certainty "Wisdom is folly"! - So you see how I have run away from Wordsworth, and Milton, and shall still run away from what was in my head, to observe, that some kind of letters are good squares others handsome ovals, and other some orbicular, others spheroid - and why should there not be another species with two rough edges like a Rat-trap? I hope you will find all my long letters of that species, and all will be well; for by merely touching the spring delicately and etherically, the rough edged will fly immediately into a proper compactness; and thus you may make a good wholesome loaf, with your own leaven in it, of my fragments - If you cannot find this said Rat-trap sufficientsly tracable - alas for me, it being an impossiblity in grain for my ink to stain otherwise: If I scribble long letters I must play my vagaries. I must be too heavy, or too light, for whole pages - I must be quaint and free of Tropes and figures - I must play my draughts as I please, and for my advantage and your erudition, crown a white with a black, of a black with a white, and move into black or white, far and near as I please - I must go from Hazlitt to Patmore, and make Wordsworth and Coleman play at leap-frog - or keep one of them down a whole half-holiday at fly the garter - "from Gray to Gay, from Little to Shakespeare" - Also, as a long cause requires two or more sittings of the Court, so a long letter will require two or more sittings of the Breech wherefore I shall resume after dinner. -
Have you not seen a Gull, an orc, a Sea Mew, or any thing to bring this Line to a proper length, and also fill up this clear part; that like the Gull I may dip - I hope, not out of sight - and also, like a Gull, I hope to be lucky in a good sized fish - This crossing a letter is not without its association - for chequer work leads us naturally to a Milkmaid, a Milkmaid to Hogarth Hogarth to Shakespeare Shakespeare to Hazlitt - Hazlitt to Shakespeare and thus by merely pulling an apron string we set a pretty peal of Chimes at work - Let them chime on while, with your patience, I will return to Wordsworth - whether or no he has an extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur - whether he is an eagle in his nest, or on the wing - And to be more explicit and to show you how tall I stand by the giant, I will put down a simile of human life as far as I now perceive it; that is, to the point to which I say we both have arrived at - Well - I compare human life to a large Mansion of Many Apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the infant or thoughtless Chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think - We remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the second Chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to hasten to it; but are at length imperceptibly impelled by the awakening of this thinking principle within us - we no sooner get into the second Chamber, which I shall call the Chamber of Maiden-Thought, than we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delying there for ever in delight. However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is that tremendous one of sharpening one's vision into the heart and nature of man, of convincing one's nerves that the world is full of misery and heartbreak, pain, sickness, and oppression; whereby this Chamber of Maidenthought becomes graually darkened, and at the same time, on all sides of it, many doors are set open - but all dark - all leading to dark passages. We see not the balance of good and evil; we are in a mist. We are in that state, we feel the "Burden of the Mystery", To this Point was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive when he wrote 'Tintern Abbey' and it seems to me that his Genius is explorative of those dark Passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall explore them - he is a Genius and superior to us, in so far as he can, more than we, make discoveries, and shed a light in them - Here I must think Wordsworth is deeper than Milton - though I think it has depended more upon the general and gregarious advance of intellect, than individual greatness of Mind - From the Paradise Lost and the other Works of Milton, I hope it is not too presuming, even between ourselves to say, that his Philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not much advanced in years, In his time englishmen were just emancipated from a great superstition - and Men had got hold of certain points and resting places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and too much opposed by the Mass of Europe not to be thought etherial and authentically divine - who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice and Chastity in Comus, just at the time of the dismissal of Cod-pieces and a hundred other disgraces? who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good and evil in the Paradise Lost, when just free from the inquisition and burning in Smithfield? The Reformation produced such immediate and great benefits, that Protestantism was considered under the immediate eye of heaven, and its own remaining Dogmas and superstitions, then, as it were, regenerated, constituted those resting places and seeming sure points of Reasoning - from that I have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have thought in the sequel, appears to have been content with these by his writings - He did not think into the human heart, as Wordsworth has done - Yet Milton as a Philosopher, had sure as great powers as Wordsworth - What is then to be inferr'd? O many things - It proves there is really a grand march of intellect -, proves that a mighty providence subdues the mightiest Minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in human Knowledge or Religion - I have often pitied a Tutor who has to hear "Nom: Musa" - so often dinn'd into his ears - I hope you may not have the same pain in this scribbling - I may have read these things before, but I never had even a thus dim perception of them; and moreover I like to say my lesson to one who will endure my tediousness for my own sake - After all there is certainly something real in the World - Moore's present to Hazlitt is real - I like that Moore, and am glad I saw him at the Theatre just before I left Town. Tom has spit a leetle blood this afternoon, and that is rather a damper - but I know - the truth is there is something real in the World. Your third Chamber of Life shall be a lucky and a gentle one - stored with the wine of love - and the Bread of Friendship. When you see George if he should not have received a letter from me tell him he will find one at home most likely - tell Bailey I hope soon to see him - Remember me to all. The leaves have been out here, for many a day - I have written to George for the first stanzas of my Isabel - I shall have them soon and will copy the whole out for you.

Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:35:00.002-07:00

My dear Bailey

When a poor devil is drowning, it is said he comes thrice to the surface, ere he makes his final sink - if however, even at the third rise, he can manage to catch hold of a piece of week or rock, he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do now, of being saved. I have sunk twice in our Correspondence, have risen twice and been too idle, or something worse, to extricate myself. I have sunk the third time and just now risen again at this two of the Clock P.M. and saved myself from utter perdition - by beginning this, all drench'd as I am and fresh from the Water - and I would rather endure the present inconvenience of a Wet jacket than you should keep a laced one in store for me. Why did I not stop at Oxford in my Way? - How can you ask such a Question? Why did I not promise to do so? Did I not in a Letter to you make a promise to do so? Then how can you be so unreasonable as to ask me why I did not? This is the thing - (for I have been rubbing up my invention; trying several sleights - I first polish'd a cold, felt it in my fingers tried it on the table, but could not pocket it: I tried Chilblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight Boots, nothing of that sort would do, so this is, as I was going to say, the thing. - I had a Letter from Tom saying how much better he had got, and thinking he had better stop - I went down to prevent his coming up. Will not this do? Turn it which way you like - it is selvaged all round. I have used it these three last days to keep out the abominable Devonshire Weather - by the by you may say what you will of Devonshire: the truth is, it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, haily, floody, muddy, slipshod county. The hills are very beautiful, when you get a sight of 'em; the primroses are out, -but then you are in; the cliffs are of a fine deep colour, but then the clouds are continually vieing with them. The women like your London People in a sort of negative way - because the native men are the poorest creatures in England - because Government never have thought it worth while to send a recruiting party among them. When I think of Wordsworths's Sonnet 'Vanguard of Liberty! ye Men of Kent!' the degenerated race about me are Pulvis Ipecac. Simplex - a strong dose. Were I a Corsair I'd make a descent on the South Coast of Devon, if I did not run the chance of having Cowardice imputed to me: as for the Men they'd run away into the methodist meeting houses, and the Women would be glad of it. Had England been a large Devonshire we should not have won the Battle of Waterloo. There are knotted oaks - there are lusty rivulets there are Meadows such as are not - there are vallies of feminine Climate but there are no thews and Sinews - Moor's Almanack is here a curiosity - Arms Neck and Shoulders may at least be seen there and the Ladies read it as some out of the way romance. Such a quelling Power have these thoughts over me that I fancy the very Air of a deteriorationg quality - I fancy the flowers, all precocious, have an Acrasian spell about them - I feel able to beat off the devonshire wave like soap froth. I think it well for the honor of Britain that Julius Ceasar did not first land in this country: A Devonshirer, standing on his native hills is not a distinct object; he does not show against the light; a wolf or two would dispossess him. I like I love England. I like its strong Men. Give me a long brown plain for my Morning so I may meet with some of Edmond Ironside's descendants. Give me a barren mould so I may meet with some Shadowing of Alfred in the Shape of a Gipsey, a Huntsman or a Shepherd. Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer, Achilles is fine, Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine, Hamlet is fine, Lear is fine, but dwingled englishmen are not fine- Where too the Women are so passabel, and have such english names, such as Ophelia, Cordelia &c - that they should have such Paramours or rather Imparamours. As for them I cannot, in thought help wishing as did the cruel Emperour, that they had but one head and I might cut it off to deliver them from any horrible Courtesy they may do their undeserving Countrymen. - I wonder I meet with no born Monsters - O Devonshire, last night I thought the Moon had dwindled in heaven. I have never had your Sermon from Wordsworth but Mrs Dilke lent it me. You know my ideas about Religion. I do not think myself more in the right than other people, and that nothing in this world is proveable. I wish I could enter into all your feelings on the subject merely for one short 10 Minutes and give you a Page or two to your liking. I am sometimes so very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a mere Jack a lanthen to amuse whoever may chance to be struck with its brilliance. As Tradesmen say every thing is worth what it will fetch, so probably every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardor of the pursuer - being in itself a nothing - Ethereal things may at least be thus real, divided under three heads - Things real - things semireal - and no things. Things real - such as existences of Sun Moon & Stars and passages of Shakspeare. Things semi-real such as Love, the Clouds &c which require a greeting of the Spirit to make them wholly exist - and Nothings which are made Great and dignified by an ardent pursuit - which by the by stamps the burgundy mark on the bottles of our Minds, insomuch as they are able to "consecrate whate'er they look upon". I have written a Sonnet here of a somewhat collateral nature - so don't imagine it an a propos des botte.

Four Seasons fill the Measure of the year;
Four Seasons are there in the mind of Man.
He hath his lusty spring when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He hath his Summer, when luxuriously
He chews the honied cud of fair springs thoughts,
Till, in his Soul dissolv'd they come to be
Part of himself. He hath his Autumn ports
And Havens of repose, when his tired wings
Are folded up, and he content to look
On Mists in idleness: to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshhold brood.
He hath his Winter too of pale Misfeature,
Or else he would forget his mortal nature

Aye this may be carried - but what am I talking of - it is an old maxim of mine and of course must be well known that every point of thought is the centre of an intellectual world - the two uppermost thoughts in a Man's mind are the two poles of his World he revolves on them and every thing is southward or northward to him through their means. We take but three steps from feathers to iron. Now my dear fellow I must once for all tell you I have not one Idea of the truth of any of my speculations - I shall never be a Reasoner because I care not to be in the right, when retired from bickering and in a proper philosophical temper. So you must not stare if in any future letter I endeavour to prove that Apollo as he had cat gut strings to his Lyre used a cats's paw as a Pecten - and further from said Pecten's reiterated and continual teasing came the term Hen peck'd. My Brother Tom desires to be remember'd to you - he has just this moment had a spitting of blood poor fellow. Remember me to Greig and Whitehead -

Your affectionate friend,
John Keats

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:35:00.001-07:00

My dear Taylor -
Your alteration strikes me as being a great Improvement - And now I will attend to the punctuations you speak of - The comma should be at soberly, and in the other passage, the Comma should follow quiet. I am extremely indebted to you for this attention, and also for your after admonitions. It is a sorry thing for me that any one should have to overcome prejudices in reading my verses - that affects me more than any hypercriticism on any particular passage - In Endymion, I have most likely but moved into the go-cart from the leading-strings - In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am from their centre.
1st. I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
2d. Its touches of beauty should never be half-way, thereby making the reader breathless, instead of content. The rise, the progress, the setting of Imagery should, like the sun, seem natural to him, shine over him, and set soberly, although in magnificence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to think what poetry should be, than to write it - And this leads me to another axiom - That if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all. - However, it may be with me, I cannot help looking into new countries with 'O for a Muse of Fire to ascend!' If Endymion serves me as a pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content - I have great reason to be content, for thank God I can read, and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths; and I have I am sure many friends, who, if I fail, will attribute any change in my life and temper to humbleness rather than pride - to a cowering under the wings of great poets, rather than to a bitterness that I am not appreciated. I am anxious to get Endymion printed that I may forget it and proceed. I have copied the 3rd Book and begun the 4th.

Your sincere and obliged friend,
John Keats

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:34:00.000-07:00

My dear Reynolds-

I had an idea that a Man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner - Let him on a certain day read a certain page of full Poesy or distilled Prose, and let him wander upon it, and bring home to it, and prophesy upon it, and dream upon it: until it becomes stale - But when will it do so? Never - When Man has arrived at a certain ripeness in intellect any one grand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting-post towards all 'the two-and-thirty Palaces.' How happy is such a voyage of concentration, what delicious diligent Indolence! ...Nor will this sparing touch of noble Books be any irreverence to their Writers - for perhaps the honors paid by Man to Man are trifles in comparison to the Benefit done by great works to the 'spirit and pulse of good' by their mere passive existence. Memory should not be called Knowledge - Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by Custom. Now it appears to me that almost any Man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy Citadel - the points of leaves and twigs on thich the spider begins her work are few, and she fills the air with a beautiful ciruiting. Man should be content with as few points to tip with the fine Web of his Soul, and weave a tapestry empyrean full of symbols for his spiritual eye, of softness for his spiritual touch, of space for his wandering, of distinctness for his luxury. But the Minds of Mortals are so different and bent on such diverse journeys that it may at first appear impossible for any common taste and fellowship to exist between two or three under these suppositions. It is however quite the contrary. Minds would leave each other in contrary directions, traverse each other in numberless points, and at last greet each other at the journey's end. An old Man and a child would talk together and the old Man be led on his path and the child left thinking. Man should not dispute or assert but whisper results to his neighbour and thus by every germ of spirit sucking the sap from mould ethereal every human might become great, and Humanity instead of being a wide heath of Furze and Briars with here and there a remote Oak or Pine, would become a grand democracy of Forest Trees! It has been an old comparison for our urging on - the Beehive; however, it seems to me that we should rather be the flower than the Bee - for it is a false notion that more is gained by receiving than giving - no, the receiver and the giver are equal in their benefits. The flower, I doubt not, receives a fair guerdon from the Bee - its leaves blush deeper in the next spring - and who shall say between man and woman which is the most delighted? Now it is more noble to sit like Jove than to fly like Mercury - let us not therefore go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there impatiently from a knowledge of what is to be aimed at; but let us open our leaves like a flower and be passive and receptive - budding patiently under the eye of Apollo and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit - sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink. I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of Idleness - I have not read any books - the Morning said I was right - I had no idea but of the morning, and the thrush said I was right - seeming to say,

O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm-tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the Spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phoebus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.

Now I am sensible all this is a mere sophistication (however it may neighbor to any truths), to excuse my own indolence - so I will not deceive myself that man should be equal with Jove - but think himself very well off as a sort of scullion-Mercury, or even a humble Bee. It is no matter whether I am right or wrong, either one way or another, if there is sufficient to lift a little time from your shoulders.

Your affectionate friend,
John Keats

A photograph of Keat's Life Love-Fanny Brawne

2010-05-25T12:33:00.001-07:00

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:31:00.000-07:00

My dear Brothers
When once a man delays a letter beyond the proper time, he delays it longer for one or two reasons; first, because he must begin in a very commonplace style, that is to say, with an excuse; and secondly things and circumstances become so jumbled in his mind, that he knows not what, or what not, he has said in his last - I shall visit you as soon as I have copied my poem all out, I am now much beforehand with the printer, they have done none yet, and I am half afraid they will let half the season by before the printing, I am determined they shall not trouble me when I have copied it all - Horace Smith has lent me his manuscript called "Nehemiah Muggs, an exposure of the Methodists" perhaps I may send you a few extracts. Hazlitt's last Lecture was on Thompson Cowper and Crabbe, he praised Cowper and Thomson, but he gave Crabbe an unmerciful licking. I think Hunt's article of Fazio - no it was not, but I saw Fazio the first night, it hung rather heavily on me - I am in the high way of being introduced to a squad of people, Peter Pindar, Mrs Opie - Mrs Scott - Mr Robinson a great friend of Colerdige's called on me - Richards tells me that my Poems are known in the West Country and that he saw a very clever copy of verses, headed with a Motto from my Sonnet to George - Honors rush so thickly upon me that I shall not be able to bear up against them. What think you, am I to be crowned in the Capitol. Am I to be made a Mandarin - No! I am to be invited, Mrs Hunt tells me, to a party at Ollier's to keep Shakespeare's birthday - Shakespeare would stare to see me there - The Wednesday before last Shelley, Hunt and I wrote each a Sonnet on the River Nile, some day you shall read them all. I saw a sheet of Endymion, and have all reason to suppose they will soon get it done, there shall be nothing wanting on my part. I have been writing at intervals many songs and Sonnets, and I long to be at Teignmouth, to read them over to you: however I think I had better wait till this Book is off my mind; it will not be long first.
Reynolds has been writing two very capital articles in the Yellow Dwarf on Popular Preachers - All the talk here is about Dr. Croft the Duke of Devon &c.

Your most affectionate Brother
John

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:30:00.000-07:00

My dear Bailey
After a tolerable journey, I went from Coach to Coach to as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers - the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lambs Conduit Street and delivered your Parcel - Jane and Marianne were greatly improved Marianne expecially she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face - but she comes me healthy and angular to the Chin - I did not see John - I was extremely sorry to hear that poor Rice, after having had capital Health during his tour, was very ill. I dare say you have heard from him. From No 19 I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours. Shelley was there. I know nothing about anything in this part of the world - every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated - there's Haydon's Picture in statu quo. There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. The web of our Life is of mingled Yarn." Haydon having removed entirely from Marlborough Street Crips must direct his Letter to Lisson Grove North - Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's in came Reynolds - he was pretty bobbish we had a plaeasant day - but he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. M^rs Bentley's children are making a horrid row - whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary Men - and will never know another except Wordsworth - no not even Byron. Here is an instance of the friendships of such. Haydon and Hunt have known each other many years - now they live pour ainsi dire jealous Neighbours. Haydon says to me Keats dont show your Lines to Hunt on any account or he will have done half for you - so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the Theatre John told him that I was getting on to the completion of 4000 lines Ah! says Hunt, had it not been for me they would have been 7000! If he will say this to Reynolds what would he to other people? Haydon received a Letter a little while back on this subject from some Lady - which contains a caution to me through him on this subject - Now is not all this a most paultry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following extract from a Letter I wrote to George in the Spring "As to what you say about my being a Poet, I can return no answer but by saying that the high Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering to high above me. At any rate I have no right to talk until Endymion is finished - it will be a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagination and chiefly of my invention which is a rare thing indeed - by which I must make 4000 Lines of one bare circumstance and fill them with Poetry; and when I consider that this is a great task, and that when done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the Temple of Fame - it makes me say - God forbid that I should be without such a task! I have heard Hunt say and I may be asked - why endeavour after a long Poem? To which I should answer - Do not the Lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second Reading: which may be food for a Weeks's stroll in the Summer? Do not they like this better than what they can read through before M^rs Williams comes down stairs? a Morning work at most. Besides a long Poem is a test of Invention which I take to be the Polar Star of Poetry, as Fancy is the Sails, and Imagination the Rudder. Did our great Poets ever write short Pieces? I mean in the shape of Tales - This same invention seems indeed of late Years to have been forgotten as a Poetcial excellence. But enough of this, I put on no Laurels till I shall have finished Endymion, and I hope Apollo is not angered at my having made a Mockery at him at Hunt's"
You see Bailey how independant my writing has been - Hunts dissuasion was of no avail - I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfettered Scope - and after all I shall have the Reputation of Hunt's elevé. His corrections and amputations will by the knowing ones be traced in the Poem. This is to be sure the vexation of a day - nor would I say so many Words about it to any but those whom I know to have my wellfare and Reputation at Heart - Haydon promised to give directions for those Casts and you may expect to see them soon - with as many Letters. You will soon hear the dinning of Bells - never mind you and Gleg will defy the foul fiend. But do not sacrifice your health to Books do take it kindly and not so voraciously. I am certain if you are your own Physician your Stomach will resume its proper Strength and then what great Benefits will follow. My Sister wrote a Letter to me which I think must be at y^r post office - Ax Will to see. My Brothers kindest remembrances to you - we are going to dine at Brown's where I have some hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the Poison and improved my Health - though I feel from my employment that I shall never be again secure in Robustness - would that you were as well as

Your sincere friend & brother
John Keats

letters of john Keats

2010-05-25T12:29:00.000-07:00

My dear Fanny,
Let us begin a regular question and answer - a little pro and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant method of my coming at your favorite little wants and enjoyments that I may meet them in a way befitting a brother.
We have been so little together since you have been able to reflect on things that I know not whether you prefer the History of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrims Progress - or Cinderella and her glass slipper to Moor's Almanack. However in a few Letters I hope I shall be able to come at that and adapt my scribblings to your Pleasure. You must tell me about all you read if it be only six Pages in a week - and this transmitted to me every now and then will procure you full sheets of Writing from me pretty frequently - This I feel as a necessity: for we ought to become intimately acquainted, in order that I may not only, as you grow up love you as my only Sister, but confide in you as my dearest friend. When I saw you last I told you of my intention of going to Oxford and 'tis now a Week since I disembark'd from his Whipship's Coach the Defiance in this place. I am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a young Man with whom I have not been long acquainted, but whom I like very much - we lead very industrious lives he in general Studies and I in proceeding at a pretty good rate with a Poem which I hope you will see early in the next year. Perhaps you might like to know what I am writing about. I will tell you.
Many Years ago there was a young handsome Shepherd who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side called Latmus - he was a very contemplative sort of a Person and lived solitary among the trees and Plains little thinking - that such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was growing mad in Love with him - However so it was; and when he was asleep on the Grass, she used to come down from heaven and admire him excessively from a long time; and at last could not refrain from carrying him away in her arms to the top of that high Mountain Latmus while he was dreaming - but I dare say you read this and all the other beautiful Tales which have come down from the ancient times of that beautiful Greece. If you have not let me know and I will tell you more at large of others quite as delightful.
This Oxford I have no doubt is the finest City in the world - it is full of old Gothic buildings - Spires - towers - Quadrangles - Cloisters Groves &c. and is surrounded with more clear streams than ever I saw together. I take a Walk by the Side of one of them every Evening and thank God, we have not had a drop of rain these many days. I had a long and interesting Letter from George, cross lines by a short one from Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both send their loves to you. Like most Englishmen they feel a mighty preference for every thing English - the french Meadows the trees the People the Towns the Churches, the Books the every thing - although they may be in themselves good: yet when put in comparison with our green Island they all vanish like Swallows in October. They have seen Cathedrals, Manuscripts, Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, Comedy, - with other things you may by chance meet with in this Country such as Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpikemen, Fish Kettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle drums, Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses &c. and, now they have taken them over a set of boxing gloves. I have written to George and requested him, as you wish I should, to write to you. I have been writing very hard lately even till an utter incapacity came on, and I feel it now about my head: so you must not mind a little out of the way sayings - though bye the bye where my brain as clear as a bell I think I should have a little propensity threreto. I shall stop here till I have finished the 3^rd Book of my Story; which I hope will be accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from to day - about which time you shall see me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays in Rhyme - I just look'd into the Book and it appeared to me suitable to you - especially since I remember your liking for those pleasant little things the Original Poems - the essays are the more mature production of the same hand. While I was speaking about France it occurred to me to speak a few Words on their Language - it is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since the jabbering in the Tower of Babel, and when you come to know that the real use and greatness of a Tongue is to be referred to its Literature - you will be astonished to find how very inferior it is to our native Speech - I wish the Italian would supersede french in every School throughout the Country for that is full of real Poetry and Romance of a kind more fitted for the Pleasure of Ladies than perhaps our own - It seems that the only end to be gained in acquiring french is the immense accomplishment of speaking it - it is none at all - a most lamentable mistake indeed. Italian indeed would sound most musically from Lips which had began to pronounce it as early as french is cramne'd down our Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws at the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy.
Now Fanny you must write soon - and write all you think about, never mind what - only let me have a good deal of your writing - You need not do it all at once - be two or three or four days about it, and let it be a diary of your little Life. You will preserve all my Letters and I will secure yours - and thus in the course of time we shall each of us have a good Bundle - which, hereafter, when things may have strangely altered and god knows what happened, we may read over together and look with pleasure on times past - that now are to come. Give my Respects to the Ladies - and so my dear Fanny I am ever

Your most affectionate Brother
John

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

My dear Hunt
The little Gentleman that sometimes lurks in a gossips bowl ought to have come in very likeness of a coasted crab and choaked me outright for not having answered your Letter ere this - however you must not suppose that I was in Town to receive it, no, it followed me to the isle of Wight and I got it just as I was going to pack up for Margate, for reasons which you anon shall hear. On arriving at this treeless affair I wrote to my Brother George to request C. C. C. to do the thing you wot of respecting Rimini; and George tells me he has undertaken it with great Pleasure; so I hope there has been an understanding between you for many Proofs - - C. C. C. is well acquainted with Bensley. Now why did you not send the Key of your Cupboard which I know was full of Papers? We would have lock'd them all in a trunk together with those you told me to destroy; which indeed I did not do for fear of demolishing Receipts. There not being a more unpleasant thing in the world (saving a thousand and one others) than to pay a Bill twice. Mind you - old Wood's a very Varmant - sharded in Covetousness - And now I am upon a horrid subject - what a horrid one you were upon last sunday and well you handled it. The last Examiner was a Battering Ram against Christianity - Blasphemy - Tertullian - Erasmus - S^r. Philip Sidney. And then the dreadful Petzelians and their expiation by Blood - and do Christians shudder at the same thing in a Newspaper which they attribute to their God in its most aggravated form? What is to be the end of this? I must mention Hazlitt's Southey - O that he had left out the grey hairs! Or that they had been in any other Paper not concluding with such a Thunderclap - that sentence about making a Page of the feeling of a whole life appears to me like a Whale's back in the Sea of Prose. I ought to have said a word on Shakspeare's Chrisitanity - there are two, which I have not looked over with you, touching the thing: the one for, the other against. That in favour is in Measure for Measure Act 2. S. 2 Isab. Alas! alas!

Why all the Souls that were, were forfeit once And he that might the vantage best have took, Found out the Remedy -

That against is in Twelfth Night. Act 3. S. 2. Maria - for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible Passages of grossness! Before I come to the Nymphs I must get through all disagreeables - I went to the Isle of Wight - thought so much about Poetry so long together that I could not get to sleep at night - and moreover, I know not how it was, I could not get wholesome food - By this means in a Week or so I became not over capable in my upper Stories, and set off pell mell for Margate, at least 150 Miles - because forsooth I fancied that I should like my old Lodging here, and could contrive to do without Trees. Another thing I was too much in Solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought as an only resource. However Tom is with me at present and we are very comfortable. We intend though to get among some Trees. How have you got on among them? How are the Nymphs? I suppose they have led you a fine dance - Where are you now. In Judea, Cappadocia, or the Parts of Lybia about Cyrene, Strangers from "Heaven, Hues and Prototypes. I wager you have given several new turns to the old saying "Now the Maid was fair and pleasant to look on" as well as made a little variation in "once upon a time" perhaps too you have rather varied "thus endeth the first Lesson" I hope you have made a Horseshoebusiness of - "unsuperfluous lift" "faint Bowers" and fibrous roots. I vow that I have been down in the Mouth lately at this Work. These last two days however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more than other Men, - seeing how great a thing it is, - how great things are to be gained by it - What a thing to be in the Mouth of Fame - that at last the Idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seeming Power of attainment that the other day I nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phæton - yet 'tis a disgrace to fail even in a huge attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began my Poem about a Fortnight since and have done some every day except travelling ones - Perhaps I may have done a good deal for the time but it appears such a Pin's Point to me that I will not coppy any out. When I consider that so many of these Pin points go to form a Bodkin point (God send I end not my Life with a bare Bodkin, in its modern sense) and that it requires a thousand and more unpleasant (it may come among the thousand and one) than to be so journeying and miss the Goal at last. But I intend to whistle all these cogitations into the Sea where I hope they will breed Storms violent enough to block up all exit from Russia. Does Shelley go on telling strange Stories of the Death of Kings? Tell him there are strange Stories of the death of Poets - some have died before they were conceived "how do you make that out Master Vellum". Does M^rs. S. cut Bread and Butter as neatly as ever? Tell her to procure some fatal Scissors and cut the thread of Life of all to be disappointed Poets. Does Mrs Hunt tear linen in half as straight as ever? Tell her to tear from the book of Life all blank Leaves. Remember me to them all - to Miss Kent and the little ones all.

Your sincere friend
John Keats alias Junkets

You shall know where we move -

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:21:00.000-07:00

My dear Haydon

Let Fame, which all hunt after in their Lives,
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs,
And so grace us in the disbrace of death:
When spite of cormorant devouring time
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That Honor which shall bate his Scythe's keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.

To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in this speech would be death to me so I have e'en written it - and I pray God that our brazen Tombs be nigh neigbors. It cannot be long first the endeavor of this present breath will soon be over - and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our sojourn - it is as well if you have not been teased with that Money affair - that bill-pestilence. However I must think that difficulties nerve the Spirit of a Man - they make our Prime Objects a Refuge as well as a Passion. The Trumpet of Fame is as a tower of Strength the ambitious bloweth it and is safe. I suppose by your telling me not to give way for forebodings George has mentioned to you what I have lately said in my Letters to him - truth is I have been in such a state of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate them. I am "one that gathers Samphire dreadful trade" the Cliff of Poesy Towers above me - yet when, Tom who meets with some of Pope's Homer in Plutarch's Lives reads some of those to me they seem like Mice to mine. I read and write about eight hours a day. There is an old saying "well begun is half done" - 'tis a bad one. I would use instead "Not begun at all till half done" so according to that I fave not begun my Poem and consequently (a priori) can say nothing about it. Thank God! I do begin arduously where I leave off, notwithstanding occasional depressions: and I hope for the support of a High Power while I clime this little eminence and especially in my Years of more momentous Labor. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over you. I have of late had the same thought - for things which I do half at Random are afterwards confirmed by my judgment in a dozen features of Propriety. Is it too daring to Fancy Shakspeare this Presidor? When in the Isle of Wight I met with a Shakspeare in the Passage of the House at which I lodged - it comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen - I was but there a Week yet the old Woman made me take it with me though I went off in a hurry - Do you not think this is ominous of good? I am glad you say every Man of great Views is at times tormented as I am -

Sunday Aft. This Morning I received a letter from George by which it appears that Money Troubles are to follow us up for some time to come perhaps for always - these vexations are a great hindrance to one - they are not like Envy and detraction stimulants to further exertion as being immediately relative and reflected on at the same time with the prime object - but rather like a nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem by the Autumn which I should have done had I gone on as I have done - but I cannot write while my spirit is fevered in a contrary direction and I am now sure of having plenty of it this Summer. At this moment I am in no enviable Situation - I feel that I am not in a Mood to write any to day; and it appears that the loss of it is the beginneng of all sorts of irregularities. I am extremely glad that a time must come when every thing will leave not a wrack behind. You tell me never to despair - I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying - truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals - it is I have no doubt the gratest Enemy and stumbling block I have to fear - I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disapppointment. However every ill has its share of good - this very bane would at any time enable me to look with an obstinate eye on the Devil Himself - ay to be as proud of being the lowest of the human race as Alfred could be in being of the highest. I feel confident I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine. I am very sure that you do love me as your own Brother - I have seen it in your continual anxiety for me - and I assure you that your wellfare and fame is and will be a chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions - the looking upon the Sun the Moon the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things - that is to say ethereal things - but here I am talking like A Madman greater things that our Crator himself made!! I wrote to Hunt yesterday - scarcly know what I said in it. I could not talk about Poetry in the way I should have liked for I was not in humor with either his or mine. His self delusions are very lamentable they have intced him into a Situation which I shuold be less eager after than that of a galley Slave - what you observe thereon is very true must be in time. Perhaps it is a self delusion to say so - but I think I could not be deceived in the Manner that Hunt is - may I die tomorrow if I am to be. There is no grater Sin after the 7 deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great Poet - or one of those beings who are privileged to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of Honor - how comfortable a feel it is that such a Crime must bring its heavy Penalty? That if one be a Selfdeluder accounts will be balanced? I am glad you are hard at Work - 't will now soon be done - I long to see Wordsworth's as well as to have mine in: but I would rather not show my face in Town till the end of the Year - if that will be time enough - if not I shall be disappointed if you do not write for me even when you think best. I never quite despair and I read Shakspeare - indeed I shall I think never read any other Book much - Now this might lead me into a long Confab but I desist. I am very near Agreeing with Hazlitt that Shakspeare is enough for us - By the by what a tremendous Southean Article his last was - I wish he had left out "grey hairs" It was very gratifying to meet your remarks of the Manuscript - I was reading Anthony and Cleopatra when I got the Paper and there are several Passages applicable to the events you commentate. You say that he arrived by degrees and not by any single struggle to the height of his ambition - and that his Life had been as common in particulars as other Mens. Shakspeare makes Enobarb say - Where's Antony Eros - He's walking in the garden - thus: and spuns the rush that lies before him; cries fool, Lepidus! In the same scene we find: "let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way." Dolabella says of Antony's Messenger

"An argument that he is pluck'd when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing" - Then again,
Eno - "I see Men's Judgements are
A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them,
To suffer all alike" -

The following applies well to Bertram"Yet he that can endure
To follow with allegience a fallen Lord,
Does conquer him that did his Master conquer,
And earns a place i' the story"

But how differently does Buonap bear his fate from Antony!
'Tis good too that the Duke of Wellington has a good Word or so in the Examiner. A Man ought to have the Fame he deserves - and I begin to think that detracting from him as well as from Wordsworth is the same thing. I wish he had a little more taste - and did not in that respect "deal in Lieutenantry". You should have herad from me before this - but in the first place I did not like to do so before I had got a little way in the Ist Book and in the next as G. told me you were going to write I delayed till I had heard from you. Give my Repects the next time you write to the North and also to John Hunt - Remember me to Reynolds and tell him to write - Ay, and when you sent Westward tell your Sister that I mentioned her in this - So now in the Name of Shakespeare Raphael and all our Saints I commend you to the care of heaven"
Your most affectionate Brother
John

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:20:00.002-07:00

My dear Reynolds,-

Ever since I wrote to my Brothers form Southhampton I have been in a taking, and at this moment I am about to become settled, for I have unpacked my books, put them into a snug corner - pinned up Haydon - Mary Queen Scotts, and Milton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I found a head of Shakspeare which I had not before seen. It is most likely the same that George spoke so well of; for I like it extremely. Well - his head I have hung over my Books, just above the three in a row, having first discarded a french Ambassador - now this alone is a good morning's work.
Yesterday I went to Shanklin, which occasioned a great debate in my Mind whether I should live there or at Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place - sloping wood and meadow ground reaches round the Chine, which is a cleft between the Cliffs of the depth of nearly 300 feet at least. This cleft is filled with trees & bushes in the narrow parts; and as it widens bedomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side, which spread to the very verge of the Sea, and some fishermen's huts on the other, perched midway in the Ballustrades of beautiful green Hedges along their steps down to the sands. - But the sea, Jack, the sea - the little waterfall - then the white cliff - then St. Catherin's Hill - "the sheep in the meadows, the cows in the corn."- Then, why are you at Carisbrooke? say you - Because, in the first place, I should be at twice the Expense, and three times the inconvenience - next that from here I can see your continent - from a little hill close by, the whole north Angle of the Isle of Wight, with the water between us. In the 3rd place, I see Carisbrooke Castle from my window, and have found several delightful wood-alleys, and copses, and quick freshes. As for Primroses - the Island ought to be called Primrose Island: that is, if the nation of Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are diverse Clans just beginning to lift up their heads and if an how the Rain holds whereby that is Birds eyes abate - Another reason of my fixing is that I am more in reach of the places around me - I intend to walk over the Island east - West - North South - I have not seen many specimens of Ruins - I dont think however I shall ever see one to surpass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is o'ergrown with the smoothest turf, and the Walls with ivy - The Keep within side is one Bower of ivy - a Colony of Jackdaws have been there many years. I dare say I have seen many a descendant of some old cawer who peeped through the Bars at Charles the first, when he was there in Confinement. On the road from Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks which disgusted me extremely with Government for placing such a Nest of Debauchery in so beautiful a place - I asked a man on the coach about this - and he said that the people had been spoiled - In the room where I slept at Newport I found this on the Window "O Isle spoilt by the Milatary!" I must in honesty however confess that I did not feel very sorry at the idea of the Women being a little profligate - The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would be no bad thing to be the favorite of some Fairy, who would give one the power of seeing how our Friends got on, at a Distance - I should like, of all Loves, a sketch of you and Tom and George in ink which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want them - From want of regular rest, I have been rather narvus - and the passage in Lear -"Do you not hear the sea?"- has maunted me intensely.

On the Sea.

It keeps eternal Whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Glut twice ten thousand Caverns; till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them theif old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell
When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.
O ye who have your eyeballs vext and tir'd
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea
Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sit ye near some old Cavern's Mouth and brood
Until ye start as if the Sea Nymphs quired -

April 18th

Will you have the goodness to do this? Borrow a Botanical Dictionary - turn to the words Laurel and Prunus show the explanations to your sisters and Mrs. Dilke and without more ado let them send me the Cups Basket and Books they trifled and put off and off while I was in Town - ask them what they can say for themselves - ask Mrs. Dilke wherefore she does so distress me - Let me know how Jane has her health - the Weather is unfavorable for her.- Tell George and Tom to write.- I'll tell you what - on the 23rd was Shakespeare born - now if I should receive a letter from you and another from my Brothers on that day 'twould be a parlous good thing. Whenever you write say a word or two on some Passage in Shakespeare that may have come rather new to you, which must be continually happening, not withstanding that we read the same Play forty times - for instance, the following from the Tempest never struck me so forcibly as at present,

'Urchins
Shall, for the vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee-'

How can I help bringing to your mind the line -

'In the dark backward and abysm of time -'

I find I cannot exist without Poetry - without eternal Poetry - half the day will not do - the whole of it - I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan. I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late - the Sonnet overleaf did me good. I slept the better last night for it - this Morning, however, I am nearly as bad again. Just now I opened Spenser, and the first Lines I saw were these -

'The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought,
And is with child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent -'

Your sincere friend,
John Keats

Letters of John Keats

2010-05-25T12:20:00.001-07:00

My dear Reynolds,-

My brothers are anxious that I should go by myself into the country - they have always been extremely fond of me, and now that Haydon has pointed out how necessary it is that I should be alone to improve myself, they give up the temporary pleasure of living with me continually for a great good which I hope will follow. So I shall soon be out of Town. You must soon bring all your present troubles to a close, and so must I, but we must, like the Fox, prepare for a fresh swarm of flies. Banish money - Banish sofas - Banish Wine - Banish Music; but right Jack Health, honest Jack Health, true Jack Health - Banish Health and banish all the world. I must ... myself .. if I come this evening, I shall horribly commit myself elsewhere. So I will send my excuses to them and Mrs. Dilke by my brothers.

Your sincere friend,
John Keats

Keats House in Hampstead

2010-05-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

The repairs in Keats House in Hampstead Heath, London, have been finished in spring 2003. The walls have been repainted in the original colors, new rooms have been opened, and this summer, a series of talks on poetry will attract visitors to the house.

Bright Star

2010-05-25T12:16:00.000-07:00

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

Keats House illuminated at Night

2009-01-13T14:50:00.000-08:00

The Hampstead street named after John Keats

2009-01-13T14:46:00.000-08:00

The Poems of John Keats

2009-01-13T12:36:00.000-08:00

“Bright Star” by John Keats.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient sleepless eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;
No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever or else swoon to death.

“La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by John Keats
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.I
set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.S
he found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--So kiss'd to sleep.
And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

“Ode On A Grecian Urn” by John Keats.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these?
What maidens loth?What mad pursuit?
What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels?
What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar,
O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

“The Eve of St. Agnes” by John Keats.

St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no--already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro.
Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance.
These let us wish away,And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by--she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams,
the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand:
she sighsAmid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;'
Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger'd still.
Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline.
Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss--in sooth such things have been.
He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart,
Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,Saying,
"Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine,
both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice,
not a whitMore tame for his gray hairs
--Alas me! flit!Flit like a ghost away.
"--"Ah, Gossip dear,We're safe enough;
here in this arm-chair sit,And tell me how
"--"Good Saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.
"He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.
""St. Agnes!
Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve
--Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro!--St. Agnes' Eve!God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve.
"Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears,
at the thought of those enchantments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!--I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.
""I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,
"Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.
""Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never miss'd."
- Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespy'd,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:"
All cates and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.
"So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his earTo follow her;
with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery,
they gainThe maiden's chamber,
silken, hush'd, and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,Old Angela was feeling for the stair,When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care,She turn'd, and down the aged gossip ledTo a safe level matting.
Now prepare,Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.Out went the taper as she hurried in;Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:She clos'd the door, she panted, all akinTo spirits of the air, and visions wide:No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!But to her heart, her heart was voluble,Paining with eloquence her balmy side;As though a tongueless nightingale should swellHer throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,All garlanded with carven imag'riesOf fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints,
and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands,
together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:--Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice;
by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept.
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd,
threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:
--O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:
--The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
While he forth from the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they standIn the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
"Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved armSank in her pillow.
Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:- 'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,
Tumultuous, - and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd,

"La belle dame sans mercy":

Close to her ear touching the melody;
wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceas'd--she panted quick--and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go.
"Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he aroseEthereal, flush'd,
and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,--Solution sweet:
meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes;
St. Agnes' moon hath set.
'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!
"'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:

No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.
""My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my restAfter so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish'd pilgrim,--sav'd by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nestSaving of thy sweet self;
if thou think'st wellTo trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise--arise! the morning is at hand;
The bloated wassaillers will never heed:
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
"She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
In all the house was heard no human sound
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

“To Autumn” by John Keats.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
ometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring?
Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
--While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

“Ode to Indolence” by John Keats.

'They toil not, neither do they spin.'
One morn before me were three figures seen,
With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
When shifted round to see the other side;
They came again;
as when the urn once moreIs shifted round,
the first seen shades return;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
How is it, shadows, that I knew ye not?
How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days?
Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness?
A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
And ached for wings, because I knew the three:
The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;
The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, -
I knew to be my demon Poesy.
They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
O folly! What is Love?
and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition - it springs
From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;For Poesy! - no, - she has not a joy, - At least for me, - so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense! A third time came they by: - alas! wherefore? My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May; The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;O shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. So, ye three ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreary urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,And for the day faint visions there is store; Vanish, ye phantoms, from my idle spright, Into the clouds, and never more return! 'Ode on Melancholy' Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones, And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans To fill it out, bloodstained and aghast;Although your rudder be a Dragon's tail, Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony, Your cordage large uprootings from the skullOf bald Medusa; certes you would fail To find the Melancholy, whether she Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies;Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lipsBidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?Have ye tippled drink more fineThan mine host's Canary wine?Or are fruits of ParadiseSweeter than those dainty piesOf venison? O generous food!Drest as though bold Robin HoodWould, with his maid Marian,Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a dayMine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, tillAn astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old signSipping beverage divine,And pledging with contented smackThe Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

'The Human Seasons'

Four Seasons fill the Measure of the year;
Four Seasons are there in the mind of Man.
He hath his lusty spring when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He hath his Summer, when luxuriously
He chews the honied cud of fair spring thoughts,
Till, in his Soul dissolv'd they come to be
Part of himself.
He hath his Autumn ports
And Havens of repose, when his tired wings
Are folded up, and he content to look
On Mists in idleness:
to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshhold brook.
He hath his Winter too of pale Misfeature,
Or else he would forget his mortal nature.

"Dedication to Leigh Hunt"

Glory and loveliness have passed away;
For if we wander out in early morn,
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
No crowd of nymphs soft voic’d and young, and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these,
And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time, when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought,
I feel a freeA leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

"Asleep" by John Keats

Asleep!
O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel,
and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air,
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery,
my giving up,
My sudden adoration,
my great love!

"In drear-nighted December", by John Keats.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er rememberApollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever anyWrithed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal itNor numbed sense to steel it,Was never said in rhyme.

"Immitation of Spenser" by John Keats.

Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
And her first footsteps touch’d a verdant hill;
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By many streams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;
Whose silken fins, and golden scales’ light
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
And oar’d himself along with majesty;
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
Beneath the waves like Africa’s ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
That in that fairest lake had placed been,
I could e’en Dido of her grief beguile;
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
For sure so fair a place was never seen,
Of all that ever charm’d romantic eye:
It seem’d an emerald in the silver sheen
Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.
And all around it dipp’d luxuriously
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
Haply it was the workings of its pride,
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outvieing all the buds in Flora’s diadem.

The Grave in Rome of John Keats

2009-01-03T14:28:00.000-08:00

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – That is all Ye know on earth, and all Ye need to know."

John Keats,Romantic Poet from Hampstead

2008-12-07T03:18:00.000-08:00

John Keats ( 31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was one of the principal poets of the English Romantic movement. During his short life, his work received constant critical attacks from periodicals of the day, but his posthumous influence on poets such as Alfred Tennyson has been immense. Elaborate word choice and sensual crimeajewel imagery characterize Keats's poetry, including a series of odes that were his masterpieces and which remain among the most popular poems in English literature. Keats's letters, which expound on his aesthetic theory of "negative capabiliity", are among the most celebrated by any writer.
John Keats was born in 1795 at 85 Moorgate in London, where his father, Thomas Keats, was an hostler. The pub is now called 'Keats at the Globe', only a few yards from Moorgate station. Keats was baptised at St Botolph-without-Bishopsgate and lived happily for the first seven years of his life. The beginnings of his troubles occurred in 1804, when his father died of a fractured skull after falling from his horse. A year later, in 1805, Keats' grandfather died. His mother, Frances Jennings Keats, remarried soon afterwards, but quickly left the new husband and moved herself and her four children (a son had died in infancy) to live with Keats's grandmother, Alice Jennings. There, Keats attended a school that first instilled a love of literature in him. In 1810, however, his mother died of tuberculosis, leaving him and his siblings in the custody of their grandmother.
Keats's grandmother appointed two guardians to take care of her new "charges", and these guardians removed Keats from his old school to become a surgeon's apprentice at Thomas Hammond's apothecary shop in Edmonton (now part of the London Borough of Enfield). This continued until 1814, when, after a fight with his master, he left his apprenticeship and became a student at Guy's Hospital (now part of King's College London). During that year, he devoted more and more of his time to the study of literature. Keats traveled to the Isle of Wight in the spring of 1819, where he spent a week. Later that year he stayed in Winchester. It was here that Keats wrote Isabella, St. Agnes' Eve and Lamia. Parts of Hyperion and the five-act poetic tragedy Otho The Great were also written in Winchester.
Following the death of his grandmother, he soon found his brother, Tom Keats, entrusted to his care. Tom was suffering, as his mother had, from tuberculosis. Finishing his epic poem "Endymion", Keats left to work in Scotland and Ireland with his friend Charles Armitage Brown. However, he too began to show signs of tuberculosis infection on that trip, and returned prematurely. When he did, he found that Tom's condition had deteriorated, and that Endymion had, as had Poems before it, been the target of much abuse from the critics. On 1 December 1818, Tom Keats died of his disease, and John Keats moved again, to live in Brown's house in Hampstead, next to Hampstead Heath. There he lived next door to Fanny Brawne, who had been staying there with her mother. He then quickly fell in love with Fanny. However, it was overall an unhappy affair for the poet; Keats's ardour for her seemed to bring him more vexation than comfort. The later (posthumous) publication of their correspondence was to scandalise Victorian society. In the diary of Fanny Brawne was found only one sentence regarding the separation: "Mr. Keats has left Hampstead." Fanny's letters to Keats were, as the poet had requested, destroyed upon his death. However, in 1937, a collection of 31 letters, written by Fanny Brawne to Keats's sister, Frances, were published by Oxford University Press. While these letters revealed the depth of Brawne's feelings toward Keats and in many ways attempted to redeem her rather promiscuous reputation, it is arguable whether or not they succeeded.
This relationship was cut short when, by 1820, Keats began showing serious signs of tuberculosis, the disease that had plagued his family. On the suggestion of his doctors, he left the cold airs of London behind and moved to Italy with his friend Joseph Severn. Keats moved into a house, which is now a museum that is dedicated to his life and work, The Keats-Shelley House, on the Spainish steps, in Rome, where despite attentive care from Severn and Dr. John Clark, the poet's health rapidly deteriorated. He died in 1821 and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery,Rome. His last request was to be buried under a tombstone reading, "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water." His name was not to appear on the stone. Despite these requests, however, Severn and Brown also added the epitaph: "This Grave contains all that was mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his heart, at the Malicious Power of his enemies, desired these words to be Engraven on his Tomb Stone" along with the image of a lyre with broken strings.
Shelley blamed his death on an article published shortly before in the Quaterly Review, with a scathing attack on Keats's Endymion. The offending article was long believed to have been written by William Gifford, though later shown to be the work of John Wilson Croker. Keats's death inspired Shelley to write the poem Adonais.';Byron later composed a short poem on this theme using the phrase "snuffed out by an article." However Byron, far less admiring of Keats's poetry than Shelley and generally more cynical in nature, was here probably just as much poking fun at Shelley's interpretation as he was having a dig at his old fencing partners the critics. (see below, Byron's other less than serious poem on the same subject).
The largest collection of Keats's letters, manuscripts, and other papers is in the Houghton library at Harvard University. Other collections of such material can be found at the British Library;Keats House, Hampstead; The Keats-Shelley House, Rome; and the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York.

Keats famous poem-Ode to a Nightingale

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,

That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South!

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainèd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttimes hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

Keats is also a distant relative of the Metaphysical poet, John Donne.