Keats's Letters

To Percy Bysshe Shelley, 16 August 1820

' - I am pick'd up and sorted to a pip.
My Imagination is a Monastry and I am its Monk - '

 
 
 


 Recipient:  Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), poet, atheist, nobleman and exile, was an early champion of Keats's work.  They were introduced by Leigh Hunt, whose politics were already alienating Keats.  Interestingly, Shelley was critical of Hunt's influence upon Keats's work; he believed Keats to be a natural talent led astray by mannerisms and affectation.
Upon learning of Keats's illness, Shelley graciously asked him to stay with his family in Italy.  The poet politely refused.  Shelley wrote the beautiful elegy Adonais upon Keats's death.  The next year, Shelley himself drowned; a volume of Keats's poetry was found in his pocket.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I think Shelley's opinion can best be described in his own words, from a letter he wrote to Marianne Hunt on 29 October 1820 regarding Keats's latest work, Hyperion:

'Keats' new volume has arrived to us, & the fragment called Hyperion promises for him that he is destined to become one of the first writers of the age. - His other things are imperfect enough....  Where is Keats now?  I am anxiously expecting him in Italy where I shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him.  I consider his a most valuable life, & I am deeply interested in his safety.  I intend to be the physician both of his body & his soul, to keep the one warm & to teach the other Greek & Spanish.  I am aware indeed that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me and this is an additional motive & will be an added pleasure.'


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction:  This interesting letter is a reply to Shelley's literary advice and kind offer of his home in Italy for Keats's recuperation.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hampstead
August 16th

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 when I think 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 bed-posts.  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 furl'd for six Months together.  And is not this extraordina[r]y talk for the writer of Endymion? whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards - I am pick'd up and sorted to a pip.  My Imagination is a Monastry and I am its Monk - you must explain my metap [for metaphysics] to yourself.  I am in expectation of Prometheus every day.  Could I have my own wish for its interest 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 publish'd but from a hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now.  I must exp[r]ess 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


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:  Shelley had advised Keats to not publish Endymion
 

Keats's Letters

To Fanny Keats, 11 September 1820



Recipient:  Fanny Keats (1803-1889) was Keats's younger sister.  Sent to live with their guardian Richard Abbey's family, she was deliberately separated from her brothers.  Abbey did not allow visits and even discouraged letters.  Nonetheless, Keats, always protective of his siblings, wrote often and visited when he could.  But his illness prevented visits during his last months in England; he left for Italy without saying goodbye.  In 1826, Fanny married a Spanish poet, Valentin Maria Llanos y Guieterrez, who had admired Keats and visited the poet just three days before his death.  Fanny and her husband left England in 1833 and never returned.  They lived in Italy from 1861-1864, where she became friendly with Joseph Severn.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction:  This letter was dictated by Keats to Fanny Brawne.  He was not able to visit his sister before leaving for Italy.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

11 September 1820

Monday Morn

My dear Fanny
In the hope of entirely re-establishing my health I shall leave England for Italy this week and, of course I shall not be able to see you before my departure. It is not illness that prevents me from writing but as I am recommended to avoid every sort of fatigue I have accepted the assistance of a friend, who I have desired to write to you when I am gone and to communicate any intelligence she may hear of me. I am as well as I can expect and feel very impatient to get on board as the sea air is expected to be of great benefit to me. My present intention is to stay some time at Naples and then to proceed to Rome where I shall find several  friends or at least several acquaintances. At any rate it will be a relief to quit this cold; wet, uncertain climate. I am not very fond of living in cities but there will be too much to amuse me, as soon as I am well enough to go out, to make me feel dull. I have received your parcel and intend to take it with me. You shall hear from me as often as possible, if I feel too tired to write myself I shall have some friend to do it for me; I have not yet heard from George nor can I expect to receive any letters from him before I leave

Your affectionate brot(her)
John-

Keats's Letters

To Charles Brown, 30 September 1820

 'Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.'

 
 
 Recipient:  Charles Brown (1787-1842) was Keats's closest friend.  They met in the summer of 1817 and went on a walking holiday of Scotland together.  Keats moved into Brown's home at Wentworth Place after Tom Keats's death.  Brown illegally married their Irish housekeeper (with whom he had an illegitimate son) in late 1819 and left on a solitary holiday to Scotland in May 1820.  He and Keats never met again, though the poet hoped that Brown would accompany him to Italy.  Brown emigrated to New Zealand in 1841 and died a year later.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Introduction:  Keats incorrectly dated this letter 28 September.  It was written on board the Maria Cowther.  Joseph Severn, Keats's traveling companion, was writing to friends as well and confessing his worry over Keats's state of mind. 

Keats's final letters to Charles Brown reveal the depression and grief he experienced over leaving Fanny Brawne, and the hopelessness of his physical condition.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday Septr 28 [for 30]
Maria Crowther
off Yarmouth isle
of wight -

My dear Brown,

The time has not yet come for a pleasant Letter from me. I have delayed writing to you from time to time because I felt how impossible it was to enliven you with one heartening hope of my recovery; this morning in bed the matter struck me in a different manner; I thought I would write "while I was in some liking" or I might become too ill to write at all and then if the desire to have written should become strong it would be a great affliction to me. I have many more Letters to write and I bless my stars that I have begun, for time seems to press, - this may be my best opportunity. We are in a calm and I am easy enough this morning. If my spirits seem too low you may in some degree impute it to our having been at sea a fortmight [for fortnight] without making any way. I was very disappointed at not meeting you at bedhamption [for Bedhampton], and am very provoked at the thought of you being at Chichester to day. I should have delighted in setting off for London for the sensation merely - for what should I do there? I could not leave my lungs or stomach or other worse things behind me. I wish to write on subjects that will not agitate me much - there is one I must mention and have done with it. Even if my body would recover of itself, this would prevent it - The very thing which I want to live most for will be a great occasion of my death. I cannot help it Who can help it? Were I in health it would make me ill, and how can I bear it in my state? I dare say you will be able to guess on what subject I am harping - you know what was my greatest pain during the first part of my illness at your house. I wish for death every day and night to deliver me from these pains, and then I wish death away, for death would destroy even those pains which are better than nothing. Land and Sea, weakness and decline are great seperators, but death is the great divorcer for ever. When the pang of this thought has passed through my mind, I may say the bitterness of death is passed. I  often wish for you that you might flatter me with the best. I think  without my mentioning it for my sake you would be a friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead. You think she has many faults - but, for my sake, think she has not one -- if there is any thing you can do for her by word or deed I know you will do it. I am in a state at present in which woman merely as woman can have no more power over me than stocks and stones, and yet the difference of my sensations with respect to Miss Brawne and my Sister is amazing. The one seems to absorb the other to a degree incredible. I seldom think of my Brother and Sister in america. The thought of leaving Miss Brawne is beyond every thing horrible - the sense of darkness coming over me - I eternally see her figure eternally vanishing. Some of the phrases shr was in the habit of using during my last nursing at Wen(t)worth place ring in my ears - Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering. The receiving of this letter is to be one of yours - I will say nothing about our friendship or rather yours to me more than that as you deserve to escape you will never be so unhappy as I am. I should think of you in my last moments. I shall endeavour to write to Miss Brawne if possible to day. A sudden stop to my life in the middle of one of these Letters would be no bad thing for it keeps one in a sort of fever awhile. Though fatigued with a Letter longer than any I have written for a .long while it would be better to go on for ever than awake to a sense of contrary winds. We expect to put into Portland roads to night. The Captn the Crew and the Passengers are all illtemper'd and weary. I shall write to dilke. I feel as if I was closing my last letter to you - My dear Brown -

Your affectionate friend
John Keats
 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:  This famous letter was once used to argue that Keats's death was hastened by his feelings for Fanny Brawne.

 

Keats's Letters

To Charles Brown, 1 November 1820

'O, that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers! - then I might hope, - but despair is forced upon me as a habit.'

Recipient:  Charles Brown (1787-1842) was Keats's closest friend.  They met in the summer of 1817 and went on a walking holiday of Scotland together.  Keats moved into Brown's home at Wentworth Place after Tom Keats's death.  Brown illegally married their Irish housekeeper (with whom he had an illegitimate son) in late 1819 and left on a solitary holiday to Scotland in May 1820.  He and Keats never met again, though the poet hoped that Brown would accompany him to Italy.  Brown emigrated to New Zealand in 1841 and died a year later.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction:  This is another emotional letter to Brown, written just after the Maria Cowther was released from quarantine in Naples.  Keats writes, 'If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me.'  His obvious physical and emotional turmoil worried his companion, Joseph Severn, who also wrote letters to their friends in England. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Naples. Wednesday first in November.

My dear Brown,

Yesterday we were let out of Quarantine, during which my health suffered more from bad air and a stifled cabin than it had done the whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter; - if that can be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would the fainest dwell upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on a little; - perhaps it may relieve the load of WRETCHEDNESS which presses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill me. I cannot q---- My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear to die - I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God I God! God I Every thing I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid about her - I see her - I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case when I was in England; I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again - Now! - O that I could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to write to her - to receive a letter from her - to see her hand writing would break my heart - even to hear of her any how, to see her name written would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (poste restante) - if she is well and happy, put a mark thus + , - if - Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently. A person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear. Write a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn is very well. If I were in better health I should urge your coming to Rome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George? O, that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers! - then I might hope, - but despair is forced upon me as a habit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I have coals of fire in my breast.. It surprised me that the human heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? God bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and his wife, and you, and all !

Your ever affectionate friend,
John Keats.

Thursday. I was a day too early for the courier. He sets out now. I have been more calm to-day, though in a half dread of not continuing so. I said nothing of my health; I know nothing of it; you will hear Severn's account from x x x x . I must leave off.  You bring my thoughts too near to ----

God bless you !


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:  The Xs in the postscript represent William Haslam's name.  Charles Brown (or a later copyist) crossed out many of the names in Keats's letters

Keats's Letters

To Charles Brown, 30 November 1820

'There is one thought enough to kill me - I have been well, healthy, alert &c, walking with her - and now - the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach.'


Recipient:  Charles Brown (1787-1842) was Keats's closest friend.  They met in the summer of 1817 and went on a walking holiday of Scotland together.  Keats moved into Brown's home at Wentworth Place after Tom Keats's death.  Brown illegally married their Irish housekeeper (with whom he had an illegitimate son) in late 1819 and left on a solitary holiday to Scotland in May 1820.  He and Keats never met again, though the poet hoped that Brown would accompany him to Italy.  Brown emigrated to New Zealand in 1841 and died a year later.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction:  This is Keats's last surviving letter.  He died on Friday, 23 February 1821, around 11:00 pm.

Keats's companion, Joseph Severn, also wrote numerous letters to their friends in England; click here to read a selection.  They are the definitive account of Keats's final months.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rome. 30 November 1820.

My dear Brown,

'Tis the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a letter. My stomach continues so bad, that I feel it worse on opening any book, - yet I am much better than I was in Quarantine. Then I am afraid to encounter the proing and conning of any thing interesting to me in England. I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence. God knows how it would have been - but it appears to me - however, I will not speak of that subject. I must have been at Bedhampton nearly at the time you were writing to me from Chichester - how unfortunate - and to pass on the river too! There was my star predominant! I cannot answer any thing in your letter, which followed me from Naples to Rome, because I am afraid to look it over again. I am so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any hand writing of a friend I love so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little horse, - and, at my worst, even in Quarantine, summoned up more puns, in a sort of desperation, in one week than in any year of. my life. There is one thought enough to kill me - I have been well, healthy, alert &c, walking with her - and now - the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach. There, you rogue, I put you to the torture, - but you must bring your philosophy to bear - as I do mine, really - or how should I be able to live? Dr Clarke is very attentive to me; he says, there is very little the matter with my lungs, but my stomach, he says is very bad. I am well disappointed in hearing good news from George, - for it runs in my head we shall all die young. I have not written to x x x x x yet, which he must think very neglectful; being anxious to send him a good account of my health, I have delayed it from week to week. If I recover, I will do all in my power to correct the mistakes made during sickness; and if I should not, all my faults will be forgiven. I shall write to x x x to-morrow, or next day. I will write to x x x x x in the middle of next week. Servern is very well, though he leads so dull a life with me. Remember me to all friends, and tell x x x x I should not have left London without taking leave of him, but from being so low in body and mind. Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I am, as far as you can guess; - and also a note to my sister - who walks about my imagination like a ghost - she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you good bye even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow.

God bless you !
John Keats.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:  The Xs in the letter represent names marked out by Brown or a later copyist

Keats's Letters

To George and Georgiana Keats   


February 14th to May 3rd, 1819

Sunday Morn Feby 14th


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 Mr John Snook's and a few days at old Mr 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 'St 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 - Mr Towers - one of the Holts - Mr Domine Williams - Mr Woodhouse Mrs Hazlitt and Son - Mrs Webb - Mrs Septimus Brown - Mr 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 Mrs 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 Mr 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 19th 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 - Mrs 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. Mrs and Mr 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 Mr and Mrs 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 Mr Lewis lately for I have shrunk from going up the hill. Mr Lewis went a few mornings ago to town with Mrs Brawne they talked about me - and I heard that Mr 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, St Agnes eve, and if I should have finished it a little thing call'd the 'eve of St 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 Mr 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 Mr 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 19th. 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