Saturday
My Dear Reynolds
There are two things which tease me
here--one of them Crips, and the other that I cannot go with Tom into
Devonshire--however I hope to do my duty to myself in a week or so; and
then I'll try what I can do for my neighbour--now is not this virtuous?
on returning to Town--I'll damn all Idleness--indeed, in superabundance
of employment, I must not be content to run here and there on little
two-penny errands--but turn Rakehell, ie go a masking or Bailey will
think me just as great a Promise Keeper as he thinks you--for
myself I do not,-and do not remember above one Complaint against you for
matter o' that--Bailey writes so abominable a hand, to give his Letter a
fair reading requires a little time: so I had not seen, when I saw you
last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas--I'll go with you. You know
how poorly Rice was--I do not think it was all corporeal--bodily pain
was not used to keep him silent. I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what
your Sisters said about his joking with your Mother, he was, soothly to
sain--It will all blow over. God knows, my Dear Reynolds, I should not
talk any sorrow to you-you must have enough vexations--so I won't any
more--If I ever start a rueful subject in a Letter to you--blow me! Why
don't you--Now I was agoing to ask a very silly Question neither
you nor any body else could answer, under a folio, or at least a
Pamphlet--you shall judge--Why don't you, as I do, look unconcerned at
what may be called more particularly Heart-vexations? They never
surprize me-lord! a man should have the fine point of his soul taken off
to become fit for this world--I like this place very much. There is Hill
& Dale and a little River--I went up Box hill this Evening after the
Moon--you a' seen the Moon--came down--and wrote some lines. Whenever I
am separated from you, and not engaged in a continued Poem--every Letter
shall bring you a lyric--but I am too anxious for you to enjoy the
whole, to send you a particle. One of the three Books I have with me is
Shakespear's Poems: I neer found so many beauties in the Sonnets--they
seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of
working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye!
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard.
He has left nothing to say about nothing or anything:
for
look at Snails, you know what he says about Snails, you know
where he talks about "cockled Snails"--well, in one of these
sonnets, he says--the chap slips into--no! I lie! this is in the
Venus and Adonis:1 the Simile brought it to my Mind.
Audi--As the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain
And there all smothered up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to put forth again:
So at his bloody view her eyes are fled,
Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.
He overwhelms a genuine Lover of Poesy with all manner
of abuse, talking about--
"a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song."
Which by the by will be a capital Motto for my Poem,
won't it?--He speaks too of "Time's antique pen"--and "april's first
born flowers"--and "deaths eternal cold".--
By the Whim King! I'll give you a Stanza, because it is
not material in connection and when I wrote it I wanted you to--give
your vote, pro or con.--
Crystalline Brother of the belt of Heaven,
Aquarius! to whom King Jove hath given
Two liquid pulse-streams! 'stead of feather'd wings--
Two fan-like fountains--thine illuminings
For Dian play:
Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare,
Show cold through watery pinions: make more bright
The Star-Queen's Crescent on her marriage night:
Haste Haste away!--
Now I hope I shall not fall off in the winding up, as
the woman said to the [illegible word]--I mean up and down. I see
there is an advertizement in the Chronicle to Poets--he is so overloaded
with poems on the late Princess. --I Suppose you do not lack--send me a
few--lend me thy hand to laugh a little--send me a little pullet sperm,
a few finch eggs--and remember me to each of our Card playing Club--When
you die you will all be turned into Dice, and be put in pawn with the
Devil--for Cards they crumple up like any King--I mean John in the stage
play what pertains Prince Arthur.
I rest
Your affectionate friend
John Keats
Give my love to both houses --hinc atque illinc.