Love letter from John Keats to Fanny Brawne.
My Dearest Girl,
I have been a walk this morning with a book in my
hand, but as usual I have been occupied with
nothing but you: I wish I could say in an
agreeable manner. I am tormented day and night.
They talk of my going to Italy. ‘Tis certain I
shall never recover if I am to be so long separate
from you: yet with all this devotion to you I
cannot persuade myself into any confidence of
You are to me an object intensely desirable — the
air I breathe in a room empty of you in unhealthy.
I am not the same to you — no — you can wait —
you have a thousand activities — you can be happy
without me. Any party, anything to fill up the day
has been enough.
How have you pass’d this month? Who have you
smil’d with? All this may seem savage in me. You
do no feel as I do — you do not know what it is
to love — one day you may — your time is not
I cannot live without you, and not only you but
chaste you; virtuous you. The Sun rises and sets,
the day passes, and you follow the bent of your
inclination to a certain extent — you have no
conception of the quantity of miserable feeling
that passes through me in a day — Be serious!
Love is not a plaything — and again do not write
unless you can do it with a crystal conscience. I
would sooner die for want of you than —
Yours for ever