July 27, 1819

Sunday Night

My sweet Girl — I hope you did not blame me much for not obeying your request of a Letter on Saturday: we have had four in our small room playing at cards night and morning leaving me no undisturb'd opportunity to write.
You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour — for what is in the world? I say you cannot conceive; it is impossible you should look with such eyes upon me as I have upon you: it cannot be.
Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ'd in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with you - two things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt the Letter as the very first time I saw you I thought you manifested some dislike to me.
If you should ever feel for Man at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to happen — only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as a Man as you are a Woman.
My dear love, I cannot believe there ever was or ever could be any thing to admire in me especially as far as sight goes — I cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be admired. You are, I love you; all I can bring you is a swooning admiration of your Beauty. I hold that place among Men which snub-nos'd [bad word] with meeting eyebrows do among women — they are trash to me — unless I should find one among them with a fire in her heart like the one that burns in mine.
You absorb me in spite of myself — you alone: for I look not forward with any pleasure to what is called being settled in the world; I tremble at domestic cares — yet for you I would meet them, though if it would leave you the happier I would rather die than do so.
I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world: it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it. From no others would I take it. I am indeed astonish'd to find myself so careless of all charms but yours — remembering as I do the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest with me.
What softer words can I find for you after this — what it is I will not read.I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Your's ever, fair Star,

John Keats