John Keats

Wentworth Place, July 8th, 1819.

My beloved Fanny,

I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was. My heart seems to have opened to an entirely new country of emotion, one where all the familiar landmarks of my previous existence have been transformed. Every day I discover something new about this strange territory of the heart you have led me into.

I have been thinking much about the nature of love these past few days, and I find myself returning again and again to one central truth: I cannot conceive any beginning of such love as I have for you but beauty. Not mere physical beauty—though heaven knows you possess that in abundance—but beauty of spirit, of mind, of that ineffable quality that makes you utterly yourself and unlike any other person I have ever known.

When I see pleasure in your eyes, love on your lips, and happiness in your steps, I feel that I am witnessing something divine made manifest in human form. You move through the world with such grace, such natural elegance, that I sometimes wonder if you are not one of those mythical beings the ancient poets wrote about—a nymph or goddess who has temporarily taken human shape to walk among mortals.

This morning I spent some time sprawling some blank verse, tagging some rhymes, trying to capture in words what you mean to me. But how inadequate language seems when set against the reality of feeling! The finest poetry pales beside the simple fact of your existence, the miracle of your caring for someone as restless and uncertain as I.

You asked in your last letter about my work, whether the poems come easily now. I must confess that since knowing you, my writing has become both easier and more difficult. Easier because I am so full of inspiration, so alive to beauty in all its forms. More difficult because I am constantly distracted by thoughts of you, by the desire to capture not just any beauty, but your particular beauty, your specific grace.

Sometimes I catch myself composing letters to you in my mind when I should be working on verses. I find myself choosing words not for their poetic effect but for their power to convey my feelings to you. You have become my most important reader, the one for whom all my words are ultimately intended.

Did you have that strange dream again? The one you mentioned when we walked in the garden? I should very much like to hear it described again, for I fancy myself something of an interpreter of dreams, and yours particularly interest me. I believe our sleeping minds often reveal truths that our waking selves are too cautious to acknowledge.

I have been reading Dante again, those passages about Beatrice, and I find myself understanding for the first time what drove him to such heights of devotion. When love takes hold of a man completely, as mine for you has done, it transforms not just his heart but his very way of seeing the world. Everything becomes charged with significance, every moment pregnant with meaning.

But I do not wish to be like those lovers who speak only of their own feelings, who make their beloved into nothing more than a mirror for their own emotions. Tell me about your thoughts, your days, your small discoveries and observations. I want to know not just that you love me, but how you see the world, what makes you laugh, what troubles your mind when you lie awake at night.

Are you still reading the book of sonnets I lent you? Which ones speak to you most? I find myself curious about everything that captures your attention, for in understanding your mind I hope to understand better this mysterious connection between us.

The weather has been fine these past days, and I have taken to walking in the early morning when the dew is still on the grass and the world seems newly made. During these walks I compose imaginary conversations with you, rehearse things I wish I had said or plan to say when next we meet. You are with me even in your absence, a constant presence in my thoughts.

I must close now, for the afternoon light is fading and I have promised to visit Brown. But know that every moment between now and when I see you again will be filled with thoughts of you, with gratitude for this extraordinary gift of loving and being loved.

Write to me soon, my dearest. Your letters are like sunlight breaking through clouds—they transform everything.

With all my love and devotion, John Keats

P.S.—I am enclosing a small wildflower I picked during my morning walk. It reminded me of you—delicate yet vibrant, beautiful in its simplicity. Press it in your book and think of me when you see it there.