My dear Reynolds--Believe me I have rather rejoiced at your happiness than fretted at your silence. Indeed I am grieved on your account that I am not at the same time happy--But I conjure you to think at Present of nothing but pleasure--"Gather the rose, etc."--gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it cannot last for ever, as I do myself now drinking bitters. Give yourself up to it--you cannot help it--and I have a Consolation in thinking so. I never was in love--Yet the voice and shape of a Woman has haunted me these two days[80]--at such a time, when the relief, the feverous relief of Poetry seems a much less crime--This morning Poetry has conquered--I have relapsed into those abstractions which are my only life--I feel escaped from a new strange and threatening sorrow--And I am thankful for it--There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of Immortality. Poor Tom--that woman--and Poetry were ringing changes in my senses--Now I am in comparison happy--I am sensible this will distress you--you must forgive me. Had I known you would have set out so soon I could have sent you the 'Pot of Basil' for I had copied it out ready.--Here is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you--I have the loan of his works--they have great Beauties. Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, For more adornment, a full thousand years; She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes, And shap'd and tinted her above all Peers: Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings, And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes With such a richness that the cloudy Kings Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. When from the Heavens I saw her first descend, My heart took fire, and only burning pains, They were my pleasures--they my Life's sad end; Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins. * * * * * * * * * * I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not recollect the purport of the last lines. I should have seen Rice ere this--but I am confined by Sawrey's mandate in the house now, and have as yet only gone out in fear of the damp night.--You know what an undangerous matter it is. I shall soon be quite recovered--Your offer I shall remember as though it had even now taken place in fact--I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet--I cannot say he is better. I have not heard from George. Your affectionate friend JOHN KEATS. LXXI.--TO FANNY KEATS. [Hampstead, October 9, 1818.] My dear Fanny--Poor Tom is about the same as when you saw him last; perhaps weaker--were it not for that I should have been over to pay you a visit these fine days. I got to the stage half an hour before it set out and counted the buns and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and was just beginning with the Jellies. There was no one in the Coach who had a Mind to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be punctual in enquiring about next Thursday--