Letters

My dearest lady,

I am now at a very pleasant cottage window

looking onto a beautifully hilly country,

with a view 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

if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me.

Ask yourself, my love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me,

so destroyed my freedom.

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 lived but three summer days.

Three such days with you I could fill with more delight

than 50 common years could ever contain.

When you can confess this in a letter

you must write immediately

and do all you can to console me in it,

make it rich as a draft of poppies

to intoxicate me,

write the softest words and kiss them

That I may at least touch my lips where yours have been

“My dear Mr. Keats, thank you for your letter.

Lately I have felt so nervous and ill that I had to stay five days in bed.

Having received your letter,

I am up again, walking our paths on the heath.

I’ve begun a butterfly farm in my bedroom in honor of us.

Sammy and Toots are catching them for me

Samuel has made a science of it

and is collecting both caterpillars and chrysalises

so we may have them fluttering about us a week or more.”

“I have two luxurious to brood over in my walks,

your loveliness and the hour of my death.

Or that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.

I never knew before what such a love as you have made me feel was.

I did not believe in it.

But if you will fully love me,

though there may be some fire,

it will not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with pleasures.”