For some weeks he was able to ply at Wentworth Place a double daily task: one, that of writing each morning in the same sitting-room with Brown, who copied as he wrote, some stanzas of a comic fairy poem which they had devised together, to be called _The Cap and Bells, or The Jealousies_, and to come out under the pseudonym of 'Lucy Vaughan Lloyd': the other, carried on each evening in the seclusion of his own room, that of remodelling _Hyperion_ into the form of a Dream or Vision, in which parts of the poem as begun a year before should be incorporated with certain changes of style and diction. At the former scheme Keats worked with great fluency but little felicity: the mere, almost mechanical act of spinning the verses of _The Cap and Bells_ seems to have come all the easier to him in that they sprang from no vital or inward part of his imaginative being, and the result is as nearly worthless as anything written by such a man can be conceived to be. In his solitary work on the recast of _Hyperion_ Keats wrote, on the other hand, out of the truest--which had come, alas! also to be the saddest--depths of himself; and the fragment needs to be studied with as much care as the best of his earlier work by those who would understand the ripening thoughts of this great, now stricken, spirit on the destinies of poets and the relation of poetry to human life. To that study we shall come by and by. For the present let it be only noted that these twofold occupations seem to have been kept up by Keats through November, and broken off soon afterwards 'owing to a circumstance which,' says Brown, mysteriously, 'it is needless to mention.' But judging by the rest of Brown's narrative, as well as by some of Keats's own private outpourings, no special or external circumstance can have been needed,--his inward sufferings were quite enough of themselves,--to put a stop to his writing. The wasting of his vital powers by latent disease was turning all his sensations and emotions into pain: at once darkening the shadow of impending poverty, increasing the natural importunity of ill-boding instincts at his heart, and exasperating into agony the unsatisfied cravings of his passion. During his 'three days' dream' under the same roof with his betrothed in October he had been able to write peaceably at nightfall:-- Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise-- Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday--or holinight Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight; But, as I've read love's missal through to-day, He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray. But now the hunger is uncontrollable:--