ἀγάπη, ὑμέναιος, αχάτης

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“july 3, 1819

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

i am now at a very pleasant cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine. i do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure i might have in living here and breathing and wandering as free as a stag about this beautiful coast if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me i have never known any unalloy’d happiness for many days together: the death or sickness of some one has always spoilt my hours—and now when none such troubles oppress me, it is you must confess very hard that another sort of pain should haunt me.

ask yourself my Love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me — write the softest words and kiss them that i may at least touch my lips where yours have been. for myself i know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: i want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. i almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you i could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. but however selfish i may feel, i am sure i could never act selfishly: as i told you a day or two before i left hampstead, i will never return to london if my fate does not turn up pam or at least a court-card. though i could centre my Happiness in you, i cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely — indeed if i thought you felt as much for me as i do for you at this moment i do not think i could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one embrace.

but no — i must live upon hope and chance. in case of the worst that can happen, i shall still love you — but what hatred shall i have for another!

some lines i read the other day are continually ringing a peal in my ears:

to see those eyes i prize above mine own

dart favors on another —

and those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar)

be gently press’d by any but myself —

think, think francesca, what a cursed thing

it were beyond expression!

j.”

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“may, 1820

my dearest Girl,

i wrote a Letter for you yesterday expecting to have seen your mother. i shall be selfish enough to send it though i know it may give you a little pain, because i wish you to see how unhappy i am for love of you, and endeavour as much as i can to entice you to give up your whole heart to me whose whole existence hangs upon you. you could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart – i am greedy of you – do not think of any thing but me. do not live as if i was not existing – do not forget me – but have i any right to say you forget me? perhaps you think of me all day. have i any right to wish you to be unhappy for me? you would forgive me for wishing it, if you knew the extreme passion i have that you should love me – and for you to love me as i do you, you must think of no one but me, much less write that sentence. yesterday and this morning i have been haunted with a sweet vision – i have seen you the whole time in your shepherdess dress. how my senses have ached at it! how my heart has been devoted to it! how my eyes have been full of Tears at it! indeed i think a real Love is enough to occupy the widest heart – your going to town alone, when u heard of it was a shock to me – yet i expected it – promise me you will not for some time, till i get better. promise me this and fill the paper full of the most endearing mames [for names]. if you cannot do so with good will, do my Love tell me – say what you think – confess if your heart is too much fasten’d on the world. perhaps then i may see you at a greater distance, i may not be able to appropriate you so closely to myself. were you to loose a favorite bird from the cage, how would your eyes ache after it as long as it was in sight; when out of sight you would recover a little. perhaps if you would, if so it is, confess to me how many things are necessary to you besides me, i might be happier, by being less tantaliz’d. well may you exclaim, how selfish, how cruel, not to let me enjoy my youth! to wish me to be unhappy! you must be so if you love me – upon my Soul I can be contented with nothing else. if you could really what is call’d enjoy yourself at a Party – if you can smile in peoples faces, and wish them to admire you now, you never have nor ever will love me – i see life in nothing but the certainty of your Love – convince me of it my sweetest. if i am not somehow convinc’d I shall die of agony. if we love we must not live as other men and women do – i cannot brook the wolfsbane of fashion and foppery and tattle. you must be mine to die upon the rack if i want you. i do not pretend to say i have more feeling than my fellows – but i wish you seriously to look over my letters kind and unkind and consider whether the Person who wrote them can be able to endure much longer the agonies and uncertainties which you are so peculiarly made to create – my recovery of bodily health will be of no benefit to me if you are not all mine when i am well. for God’s sake save me – or tell me my passion is of too awful a nature for you. again God bless you

john keats

no, my sweet Fanny, i am wrong. i do not want you to be unhappy, and yet i do, i must while there is so sweet a Beauty – my loveliest my darling! good bye! i kiss you – o the torments!”

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“o latest born and loveliest vision far

of all olympus’ faded hierarchy!

fairer than phoebe’s sapphire-region’d star,

or vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;

fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,

nor altar heap’d with flowers;

nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

upon the midnight hours;

no voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

from chain-swung censer teeming;

no shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.

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o brightest! though too late for antique vows,

too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

when holy were the haunted forest boughs,

holy the air, the water, and the fire;

yet even in these days so far retir’d

from happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

fluttering among the faint olympians,

i see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir’d.

so let me be thy choir, and make a moan

upon the midnight hours;

thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

from swinged censer teeming;

thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.

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yes, i will be thy priest, and build a fane

in some untrodden region of my mind,

where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,

instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees

fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

and there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

the moss-lain dryads shall be lull’d to sleep;

and in the midst of this wide quietness

a rosy sanctuary will i dress

with the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,

with buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

with all the gardener fancy e’er could feign,

who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

and there shall be for thee all soft delight

that shadowy thought can win,

a bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

to let the warm Love in!”

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“bright star, would i were stedfast 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.”

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“july 8, 1819

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 stealing upon me. all my thoughts, my unhappiest days and nights have i find not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, but made it so intense that i am miserable that you are not with me: or rather breathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life.

i never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; i did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. but if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, ‘twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.

you mention ‘horrid people’ and ask me whether it depend upon them whether i see you again. do understand me, my love, in this. i have so much of you in my heart that i must turn Mentor when i see a chance of harm befalling you. i would never see 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!”

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“13 october, 1819

my dearest girl,

this moment i have set myself to copy some verses out fair. i cannot proceed with any degree of content. i must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. upon my Soul i can think of nothing else — the time is passed when i had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life — my love has made me selfish. i cannot exist without you — i am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again — my Life seems to stop there — i see no further. you have absorb’d me. i have a sensation at the present moment as though i was dissolving — i should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. i should be afraid to separate myself far from you. my sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? my love, will it? i have no limit now to my love — your note came in just here — i cannot be happier away from you — ’t is richer than an argosy of pearles. do not threat me even in jest. i have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — i have shudder’d at it — i shudder no more. i could be martyr’d for my Religion — Love is my religion — i could die for that — i could die for you. my Creed is Love and you are its only tenet — you have ravish’d me away by a Power i cannot resist; and yet i could resist till i saw you; and even since i have seen you i have ‘to reason against the reasons of my Love.’ i can do that no more — the pain would be too great — my Love is selfish. i cannot breathe without you.

yours for ever

john keats”

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