There is Wild wood, A Mild hood To the sheep on the lea o' the down, Where the golden furze, With its green, thin spurs, Doth catch at the maiden's gown. There is Newton marsh With its spear grass harsh-- A pleasant summer level Where the maidens sweet Of the Market Street, Do meet in the dusk to revel. There's the Barton rich With dyke and ditch And hedge for the thrush to live in And the hollow tree For the buzzing bee And a bank for the wasp to hive in. And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken'd, And the violets white Sit in silver plight, And the green bud's as long as the spike end. Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled Prickets? I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything--it will be safe with you if worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here's some doggrel for you--Perhaps you would like a bit of b----hrell-- Where be ye going, you Devon Maid? And what have you there in the Basket? Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it? I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, And I love your junkets mainly, But 'hind the door I love kissing more, O look not so disdainly. I love your hills, and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating-- But O, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating! I'll put your Basket all safe in a nook, Your shawl I hang up on the willow, And we will sigh in the daisy's eye And kiss on a grass green pillow. How does the work go on? I should like to bring out my "Dentatus"[55] at the time your Epic makes its appearance. I expect to have my Mind soon clear for something new. Tom has been much worse: but is now getting better--his remembrances to you. I think of seeing the Dart and Plymouth--but I don't know. It has as yet been a Mystery to me how and where Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking he has returned to his Shell--with his beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. It is a great Pity that People should by associating themselves with the finest things, spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. Wordsworth has damned the lakes--Milman has damned the old drama--West has damned----wholesale. Peacock has damned satire--Ollier has damn'd Music--Hazlitt has damned the bigoted and the blue-stockinged; how durst the Man?! he is your only good damner, and if ever I am damn'd--damn me if I shouldn't like him to damn me. It will not be long ere I see you, but I thought I would just give you a line out of Devon. Yours affectionately JOHN KEATS. Remember me to all we know. XLIV.--TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY. Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818].