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[专题]怀念济慈

绝对同意Pullings.我对英国的两样东西有情结，一个是英国音乐，另一个是英国诗歌。那是一种不假思索的信任，甚至可以说是盲目的。英国乐队与英国诗人，这样的名词就像是品质的保证，不会让我有丝毫犹豫。不过我也必须说，Wordsworth的气质，仅仅存在于某些创作中，对于湖畔派后期的那些思想和作为，我是很不以为然的。但这些并不能抹杀他们在诗歌方面的贡献，这我知道。
unicorn,我很可惜你放弃掉了那门课程。Keats说，如果诗歌不如树木长叶那般来得自然，那还是不要来的好。我真想改一下：如果做事情的热情不如树木长叶那般来得自然，还是不要做得好。现在这样讲可能很不负责任，而且我也不能干涉这样的事情，就像你说的，人都要实际一点。但追求梦想，为自己热爱的事物献身，这难道不实际吗？这才是真正为社会贡献出自己的一部分呀，自己的！我还是觉得对梦想应当坚定一些，而不是为了社会潮流消磨掉这份敢于追求的勇气，让自己的灵魂变得苍白无力。为什么要放弃热情去做一些看似正常其实陌生的事情呢？成功的几率并不会高。并不是每个人都知道自己想要做什么，所以他们只能做别人都在做的事情；但如果你知道，那是多么珍贵啊，怎么可以弃之不理呢！可能我说得多了，着实是因为有感而发。最近在这些方面受到一些刺激，但我很高兴自己足够坚定。我不是有意要说教，我是太渴望有人听自己说这些了！你可不要嫌弃我罗嗦啊。其实说回来，我们对网球，对音乐，对诗歌，对电影，也许只是当做一种业余爱好，我们只想单向索取，从中找快乐，并没有打算为它们贡献什么。如果是那样就不要紧呀，只要你保持对英国文学的热情，即使放弃了课程也不会有损失，完全可以自己去欣赏。我倒感觉那些课程把文学死板化了，像安装水管一样欣赏它们。诗实在不是用来学习的。不过unicorn,如果哪一天你真的发现了自己甘愿奉献一生的事情，一定不要错过它，不要再做让自己后悔的事情。"Carpe diem!"
说得有些沉重，让我们换个话题吧。像你当初错过Wimbledon一样，我遗憾地发现自己错过了多么重要的地方，而且是以如此不可原谅的方式。我直到最近做这个专题的时候才知道，当初Keats到罗马就住在Spanish Steps的附近。现在那里成了Keats-Shelley House，展出诗人生前的一些遗物。我当时去罗马的时候，曾经两度坐在Spanish Steps上，我甚至从那间屋子前面经过！可是我竟然都不知道那个地方就是Keats-Shelley House.我连它的轮廓都记不得了。悔恨啊！我去罗马之前应当仔细地了解一下当地的景点的。这比错过Olympico更让我难过。我完全有机会进去，里面据说还陈列着Keats的一绺头发，我说不定也会像他写《Lines on seeing a Lock of Milton';s Hair》一样地有感而发呢！还好我在许愿池里扔下了硬币，我一定会再到那里的，像你重去Wimbledon那样。说到这个，最近英语课留了一个演讲题目：如果给你一个月的时间去英国。我想我会说到你的。我会先计划去Brighton看你，然后我们打着伞去买票看Andy的比赛。我会把我的梦想说上的。呵呵。巴黎大师赛那会电脑又坏成一堆烂泥，后面的赛果都没更新，又靠你一个人了。现在大师杯Andy打得很好哦，希望他接下来顺顺利利的。
英国的冬天怎么样？据说很糟糕，那曾经迫害过多少诗人可怜的肺呀！你要保重。想你 ：）
WitchBader,我真高兴你这么说。如果这帖能让那些不知道Keats的人了解他，感动于此，并且爱上诗歌，天哪！让我亲手打10遍《Adonais》上来我都不抱怨。真的，知道自己心爱的东西不会被人一脸不屑地丢在一边，真幸福。你给了我莫大的动力。前些时间电脑故障延误了进度，我会加紧更新内容的。

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]IV.《To John Keats,Poet,At Spring Time》[/b]
                                    by Countee Cullen
I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year';s song and next year';s bliss.
I know, in spite of all men say
Of Beauty, you have felt her most.
Yea, even in your grave her way
Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,
Spring never was so fair and dear
As Beauty makes her seem this year.
    I cannot hold my peace, John Keats,
I am as helpless in the toil
Of Spring as any lamb that bleats
To feel the solid earth recoil
Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats
her tocsin call to those who love her,
And lo! the dogwood petals cover
Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek
White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover
About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,
While white and purple lilacs muster
A strength that bears them to a cluster
Of color and odor; for her sake
All things that slept are now awake.
And you and I, shall we lie still,
John Keats, while Beauty summons us?
Somehow I feel your sensitive will
Is pulsing up some tremulous
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
Grow music as they grow, since your
Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves
For life that opens death';s dark door.
    Though dust, your fingers still can push
The Vision Splendid to a birth,
Though now they work as grass in the hush
Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.
"John Keats is dead," they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.
And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:54 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]V.《Keats》[/b]
                 by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion';s sleep;
The shepherd boy whose tale was left half told!
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep;
It is midsummer, but the air is cold;
Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold
A spherd';s pipe lies shattered near his sheep.
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white,
On which I read: "here lieth one whose name
Was writ in water." And was this the meed
Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write:
"The smoking flax before it burst to flame
Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed."

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:55 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]VI.《To Keats in October》[/b]
                     by James Kimbrell
There they are, a few dusk-drunk swallows
Up at five o-clock from their eaves and awnings--
--See, these born-again impresarios
Of smokestack and steeple still dip and wing,
And we, if we watch their upgathering, still
Disappear into the veil of things just
Out of eye-shot. Is it too naive, too simple
To think if they';re here, then you, too, must
Be on wing above the buildings and traffic,
Dryad of light-poles and trees? What a view--
--And how not to swoon in this arithmetic
Of flaring branches, this sensorium
Of twitterings? How not to believe that you
Peer now--don';t you?--down through
The leaves--the claret-colored roof of autumn?

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:55 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

AIMITA终于看到你了！
andy今天输给死兔子了，全场的美国球迷都给andy加油呢，兔子自己喊其实也怪可怜的。可是兔子喊得很分andy的心。andy今天一点斗志都没有，很快就放弃了。
他的反手和网前的进步在打round robin的时候给我带来的是震惊...没想到今天打兔子一下子回到了原来的水平。
andy退场的时候我心里特别难过。当时common room里有人都不敢哭出来，回到房间就不行了。
早知道周五上chapel不该睡觉，该好好给andy祈祷的。
算了，明年温网真想就能去看他了。
今天brighton下小雪了。震惊！然后我在雪里走着去练球。
我也想你，这周刚考完，我写了整整一页纸的我对朋友的回想。其中就有你。=）

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/21 08:40pm 第 1 次编辑]

看到你在体育版写的文章了，在那里做了回复。兔子喊得像野人一样，看Andy那样我真的有点生气。以前他是场下不在乎，这次场上都不在乎了。
算了，不说Andy,说Keats...

[b]VII.《To John Keats》[/b]
                  by Amy Lowell
Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
From life';s slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian
Of crystal portals through whose openings fan
The spiced winds which blew when earth was young,
Scattereing wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung
A golden shower from heights cerulean.
Crumbled before thy majesty we bow.
Forget thy empupled state, thy panoply
Of greatness, and be merciful and enar;
A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now
Singing the miles behind him; so may we
Faint throbbings of thy music overhear.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:55 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]VIII.《To John Keats》[/b]
                         by Anthony Lombardy
Come back to us, John Keats, if though you';re dead,
You hear your Grecian Urn and Autumn read,
And loving those who earnestly love you
Can aid in what you can no longer do,
Can heal, as, when you lived, no doctor could.
Parmenides and Plato understood
How, keeping to the letter of their laws,
One who does not exist can be a cause,
Can move us insofar as he is not,
As the cold can bite, effective as the hot.
So, unabashed, John Keats, I call your name,
Not from a youthful need for love or fame,
But that I be less likely to ignore
Your wise command to load each rift with ore,
And that no one believe he is alone
"Here, where men sit and hear each other groan."
Your kindness, vivid when your brother died,
Still comforts those who feel you at their side,
So do not scorn this rhetorical device,
Do not ignore all those who';ve called you twice,
In your person and your verses, and who care
To think that when they hear you, you are there.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:56 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/21 09:15pm 第 1 次编辑]

[b]IX.《Autumn Refrain》[/b]
                  by Wallace Stevens
The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of sun, too, gone. . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never-shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still,
and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never-shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:56 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]X.《Keats at Highgate》[/b]
                         by Thom Gunn
A cheerful youth joined Coleridge on his walk
(';Loose,'; noted Coleridge, ';slack, and not well-dressed';)
Listening respectfully to the talk talk talk
Of First and Second Consciousness, then pressed
The famous hand with warmth and sauntered back
Homeward in his own state of less dispersed
More passive consciousness--passive, not slack,
Whether of Secondary type or First.
He made his way toward Hampstead so alert
He hardly passed the small grey ponds below
Or watched a sparrow pecking in the dirt
Without some insight swelling the mind';s flow
That banks made swift. Everything put to use.
Perhaps not well-dressed but oh no not loose.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:56 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[b]XI.《给约翰·济慈一个金橘》[/b]
现实、历史、欧洲、非洲、痛苦、希望、忧患、新奇，它们交织成这样的诗篇，表达着后生诗人哈里森对于济慈这样一个永远年轻纯真的诗人的仰慕和爱。

[b]A Kumquat for John Keats[/b]
                       by Tony Harrison
Today I found the right fruit for my prime,
not orange, not tangelo, and not lime,
nor moon-like globes of grapefruit that hang
outside our bedroom, nor tart lemon';s tang
(though last year full of bile and self-defeat
I wanted to believe no life was sweet)
nor the tangible sunshine of the tangerine,
and no incongruous citrus ever seen
at greengrocers'; in Newcastle or Leeds
mis-spelt by the spuds and mud-caked swedes,
a fruit an older poet might substitute
for the grape John Keats thought fit to be Joy';s fruit,
when, two years before he died, he tried to write
how Melancholy dwelled inside Delight,
and if he';d known the citrus that I mean
that';s not orange, lemon, lime, or tangerine,
I';m pretty sure that Keats, though he had heard
"of candied apple, quince and plum and gourd"
instead of "grape against the palate fine"
would have, if he';d known it, plumped for mine,
this Eastern citrus scarcely cherry size
he';d bite just once and then apostrophize
and pen one stanza how the fruit had all
the qualities of fruit before the Fall,
but in the next few lines be forced to write
how Eve';s apple tasted at the second bite,
and if John Keats had only lived to be,
because of extra years, in need like me,
at 42 he';d help me celebrate
that Micanopy kumquat that I ate
whole, straight off the tree, sweet pulp and sour skin --
or was it sweet outside and sour within?
For however many kumquats that I eat
I';m not sure if it';s flesh or rind that';s sweet,
and being a man of doubt at life';s mid-way
I';d offer Keats some kumquats and I';d say:
You';ll find that one part';s sweet and one part';s tart:
say where the sweetness and the sourness start.
I find I can';t, as if one couldn';t say
exactly where the night became the day,
which makes for me the kumquat taken whole
best fruit, and metaphor to fit the soul
of one in Florida at 42 with Keats
crunching kumquats, thinking, as he eats
the flesh, the juice, the pith, the pips, the peel,
that this is how a full life ought to feel,
its perishable relish prick the tongue,
when the man who savours life';s no longer young,
the fruits that were his futures far behind.
Then it';s the kumquat fruit expresses best
how days have darkness round them like a rind,
life has a skin of death that keeps its zest.
History, a life, the heart, the brain
flow to the taste buds and flow back again.
That decade or more past Keats';s span
makes me an older not a wiser man,
who knows that it';s too late for dying young,
but since youth leaves some sweetnesses unsung,
he';s granted days and kumquats to express
Man';s Being ripened by his Nothingness.
And it isn';t just the gap of sixteen years,
a bigger crop of terrors, hopes and fears,
but a century of history on this earth
between John Keats';s death and my own birth --
years like an open crater, gory, grim,
with bloody bubbles leering at the rim;
a thing no bigger than an urn explodes
and ravishes all silence, and all odes,
Flora asphyxiated by foul air
unknown to either Keats or Lemprière,
dehydrated Naiads, Dryad amputees
dragging themselves through slagscapes with no trees,
a shirt of Nessus fire that gnaws and eats
children half the age of dying Keats . . .
Now were you twenty-five or -six years old
when that fevered brow at last grew cold?
I';ve got no books to hand to check the dates.
My grudging but glad spirit celebrates
that all I';ve got to hand';s the kumquats, John,
the fruit I';d love to have your verdict on,
but dead men don';t eat kumquats, or drink wine,
they shiver in the arms of Prosperine,
not warm in bed beside their Fanny Brawne,
nor watch her pick ripe grapefruit in the dawn
as I did, waking, when I saw her twist,
with one deft movement of a sunburnt wrist,
the moon, that feebly lit our last night';s walk
past alligator swampland, off its stalk.
I thought of moon-juice juleps when I saw,
as if I';d never seen the moon before,
the planet glow among the fruit, and its pale light
make each citrus on the tree its satellite.
Each evening when I reach to draw the blind
stars seem the light zest squeezed through night';s black rind;
the night';s peeled fruit the sun, juiced of its rays,
first stains, then streaks, then floods the world with days,
days, when the very sunlight made me weep,
days, spent like the nights in deep, drugged sleep,
days in Newcastle by my daughter';s bed,
wondering if she, or I, weren';t better dead,
days in Leeds, grey days, my first dark suit,
my mother';s wreaths stacked next to Christmas fruit,
and days, like this in Micanopy. Days!
As strong sun burns away the dawn';s grey haze
I pick a kumquat and the branches spray
cold dew in my face to start the day.
The dawn';s molasses make the citrus gleam
still in the orchards of the groves of dream.
The limes, like Galway after weeks of rain,
glow with a greenness that is close to pain,
the dew-cooled surfaces of fruit that spent
all last night flaming in the firmament.
The new day dawns. O days! My spirit greets
the kumquat with the spirit of John Keats.
O kumquat, comfort for not dying young,
both sweet and bitter, bless the poet';s tongue!
I burst the whole fruit chilled by morning dew
against my palate. Fine, for 42!
I search for buzzards as the air grows clear
and see them ride fresh thermals overhead.
Their bleak cries were the first sound I could hear
when I stepped at the start of sunrise out of doors,
and a noise like last night';s bedsprings on our bed
from Mr Fowler sharpening farmers'; saws.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:57 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/23 10:27pm 第 1 次编辑]

[b]XII.其它[/b]
还有一些，有的我不知道出处，有的仅仅是顺带提及济慈，有的是网友的作品，我一并汇总到这最后一个部分里。

[b]《Cemetery Gates》[/b]
The Smith乐队的一首歌，出自专辑《Rank》.歌词里提到了济慈，叶芝和王尔德。
A dreaded sunny day
I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
While Wilde is on mine
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now ?
With loves, with hates
With passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
It seems so unfair
Oh, I want to cry

You say : "';Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But I';ve read well, and I';ve heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
If you must write prose and poems
The word you use should be your own
Don';t plagiarise or take "on loan"
There';s always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And trips you up and laughs
When you fall
Who';ll trip you up and laugh
When you fall

You say : "Long done do does did"
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(Some dizzy whore, 1804)

A dreaded sunny day
So let';s go where we';re happy
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Oh, Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So let';s go where we';re wanted
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose
';Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine
=====================================================================================
[b]《comparison》[/b]
一个叫做Gail White的网友写的，短小而有趣。
Keats was dead at 24--
I expect to reach three-score.
Keats has earned immortal fame--
I';m still dreaming of the same.
Love forsook his lonely sheets--
We';re much alike, myself and Keats
=====================================================================================
女诗人Edna St.Vincent Millay悼念友人的一首十四行诗，无题，有关背景如下：
"Millay';s favorite poet was Keats -- upon her early publications, in fact, the critics wrote that her work was ';full of the echoes of Wordsworth and Keats.'; She and Elinor Wylie (who favored Shelley) were friends, and this sonnet was written after Elinor';s death. From Huntsman, What Quarry?"
Nobody now throughout the pleasant day,
The flowers well tended and the friends not few,
Teases my mind as only you could do
To mortal combat erudite and gay ...
"So Mr. S. was kind to Mr. K.!
Whilst Mr. K. — wait, I';ve a word or two!"
(I think that Keats and Shelley died with you —
They live on paper now, another way.)
You left in time, too soon; to leave too soon
Was tragic and in order — had the great
Not taught us how to die? — My simple blood,
Loving you early, lives to mourn you late ...
As Mr. K., it may be, would have done;
As Mr. S. (oh answer!) never would.
=====================================================================================
[b]《The Bog of Despair》[/b]
网友Katy Evans-Bush的作品，写在济慈故居的院子里。里面提到Hampstead Heath.根据济慈的书信，他经常夹着书，穿过这石楠树丛去拜访李·亨特或是其他友人。
We’d lunched on Greek salad and coffee
In a place with white walls and a skylight,
And when the guy in the corner’s phone
Went off in a polyphonic can-can
We laughed without even trying to hide it.
We’d looked in a shop where a scarf
Of silk sat waiting for me to wear it,
And walked past a dog in a puddle
Of mud, who shook his coat,
But missed us - and we laughed.
The Heath was lovely that day –
The air was full of spring.
We’d walked up a foresty path,
Past a rubber hung like a thief on a tree,
Full of swag, and we’d laughed and laughed.
We’d walked past the swimming pond
And up the mound of Parliament Hill,
Talking about John Keats,
And other people we know, and the dog,
Looking for somewhere to sit, and laughing.
But every bench we came to
Was engraved in memory of someone
Loved and regretted, young, a child.
I imagined them sitting quiet
Along the hill, or invisibly playing.
The benches sat on a fat slope
Far from the blue chiffon horizon,
The blink of Canary Wharf,
The London Eye’s diamond necklace.
We read them, and flinched, and laughed.
We turned and started down:
You had to get your kids from school,
And I had a shiny scarf to buy,
And the jeweller’s-window view
Of London had ceased to amuse us.
Your new shoes from Paris stuck
In the mud, and we laughed: the Bog
Of Despair! We laughed because
We could feel, behind us, up the hill,
The children watching us.
======================================================================================
[b]《Keats》[/b]
出处不明，网友Janet Kenny提供。
When only tortured language wrings the truth
from placid prose I turn my mind to Keats
who with the flagrant confidence of youth
exploited every word within his reach.
Some supple sense of daring let him slip
between the heavy pieties and shrill
excesses of contemporaries--grip
the bones of prosody with elfin skill.
Where are the ancient soft embalmers now
and where eternal lids? Our mind’s cage-door
has clanged and left us all not knowing how
to visit mystery. We are the poor
who must use plastic when we long for wood,
take Prozac when we weep for some relief
from what we know is real, in case we should
seem self-indulgent, giving way to grief
when all about us suffer, maybe more
than we who speak. Unsure of how to show
the horror in our heads without the score,
that raga for the end of human woe
we have no right to commandeer. The shared
enormity of what we face must dwarf
our individual commentary, pared
to blandness we must chatter about golf
and cooking, our vacation in remote
locations, where the language is unique,
the bread is made of millet, and a goat
is tethered in our room. Beware of bleak
reminders that like Keats we cannot sleep,
without a draft of something that will ward
our oilëd minds from dangers. Angry sheep
that leap in endless file, a growing hoard
of memories. I eagerly return
to Keats with his last sonnet when he knows
the permanence of moments; his nocturne
is fixed like dawn upon the alpine snows.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:58 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/28 03:11pm 第 2 次编辑]

[b]三.济慈书信[/b]
济慈短暂的一生里，并没有留下日记，却在1816至1820年期间留下了约170封书信。它们真实地记载了诗人思想感情的变化，是关于诗人精神发展历程的重要文献。21-25岁，正是敏感多思的年纪，渴望倾诉，满载热情。诗歌中耗散不尽的激情，济慈把它们诉诸信笺。相较于那个吟唱着的济慈，信中的济慈更为真实。不再只有遥远的年代，荣誉的头衔，严密的韵脚，烦琐的倒装，这是一个生动活泼的人：喜欢讲俏皮话，敏感得有些神经质；热爱生活，陶醉于诗歌；善思考，勤自省；像我们在这里怀念他一样，希望在莎士比亚的生日时收到写有他戏剧引文的信件；像我们想要了解他那样，猜想莎士比亚写“生存还是毁灭”时取怎样的坐姿；像我们感动于他生活中的小细节一般，因看见弥尔顿的一绺头发而激动不已……委婉诉说，嬉笑怒骂，痛哭流涕，这一切都是如此亲切，尽管已时隔近二百年。展现在我们面前的仅仅是一个有血有肉有感情的年轻人。济慈只活了26个年头，入世未深，某些方面仍然是个孩子，信中也不免有幼稚可笑的地方。然而笑着笑着，便叫你落下泪来。

[b]To J H Reynolds, 17-18 April 1817[/b]
[quote]';I find that I cannot exist without poetry - without eternal poetry - half the day will not do - the whole of it - I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan - I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late - ';[/quote]

[b]Recipient[/b]:John Hamilton Reynolds (1794-1852) met Keats at Leigh Hunt';s home in October 1816.  Reynolds later introduced Keats to Charles Brown, James Rice, Benjamin Bailey, Charles Wentworth Dilke (among others), as well as his future publisher, John Taylor.  Reynolds had dabbled in poetry himself but abandoned it for a career in law.  He was a passionate advocate of Keats';s work and a devoted friend.  They discussed poetry and planned several works together.
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[b]Introduction[/b]:This letter was written during Keats';s brief holiday in Carisbrooke. It includes a discussion of Shakespeare and several beautiful descriptions of the landscape.

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Carisbrooke April 17th
My dear Reynolds,
Ever since I wrote to my Brothers from Southampton I have been in a taking, and at this moment I am about to become settled, for I have unpacked my books, put them into a snug corner - pinned up Haydon - Mary Queen [of] Scotts, and Milton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I found a head of Shakspeare which I had not before seen. It is most likely the same that George spoke so well of; for I like it extremely. Well - this head I have hung over my Books, just above the three in a row, having first discarded a french Ambassador - now this alone is a good morning';s work.
Yesterday I went to Shanklin, which occasioned a great debate in my Mind whether I should live there or at Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place - sloping wood and meadow ground reaches round the Chine, which is a cleft between the Cliffs of the depth of nearly 300 feet at least. This cleft is filled with trees & bushes in the narrow parts; and as it widens becomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side, which spread to the very verge of the Sea, and some fishermen';s huts on the other, perched midway in the Ballustrades of beautiful green Hedges along their steps down to the sands. - But the sea, Jack, the sea - the little waterfall - then the white cliff - then St. Catherine';s Hill - "the sheep in the meadows, the cows in the corn." - Then, why are you at Carisbrooke? say you-Because, in the first place, I shod be at twice the Expense, and three times the inconvenience - next that from here I can see your continent - from a little hill close by, the whole north Angle of the - Isle of Wight, with the water between us. In the 3d place, I see Carisbrooke Castle from my window, and have found several delightful wood-alleys, and copses, and quick freshes. As for Primroses-the Island ought to be called Primrose Island: that is, if the nation of Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are diverse Clans just beginning to lift up their heads and if an how the Rain holds whereby that is Birds eyes abate - Another reason of my fixing is that I am more in reach of the places around me - I intend to walk over the Island east - West-North South - I have not seen many specimens of Ruins-I dont think however I shall ever see one to surpass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is o';ergrown with the smoothest turf, and the Walls with ivy - The Keep within side is one Bower of ivy - a Colony of Jackdaws have been there many years. I dare say I have seen many a descendant of some old cawer who peeped through the Bars at Charles the first, when he was there in Confinement. On the road from Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks which disgusted me extremely with Government for placing such a Nest of Debauchery in so beautiful a place - I asked a man on the coach about this - and he said that the people had been spoiled - In the room where I slept at Newport I found this on the Window "O Isle spoilt by the Milatary!" I must in honesty however confess that I did not feel very sorry at the idea of the Women being a little profligate - The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would be no bad thing to be the favorite of some Fairy, who would give one the power of seeing how our Friends got on, at a Distance - I should like, of all Loves, a sketch of you and Tom and George in ink which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want them - From want of regular rest, I have been rather narvus - and the passage in Lear  - "Do you not hear the sea?"  - has haunted me intensely.
On the Sea.
It keeps eternal Whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Glut twice ten thousand Caverns; till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them theif old shadowy sound.
Often ';tis in such gentle temper found
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell
When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.
O ye who have your eyeballs vext and tir';d
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea
Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sit ye near some old Cavern';s Mouth and brood
Until ye start as if the Sea Nymphs quired -

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:59 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/24 09:38pm 第 1 次编辑]

April 18th
Will you have the goodness to do this? Borrow a Botanical Dictionary - turn to the words Laurel and Prunus show the explanations to your sisters and Mrs Dilk[e] and without more ado let them send me the Cups Basket and Books they trifled and put off and off while I was in Town - ask them what they can say for themselves  - ask Mrs Dilk[e] wherefore she does so distress me - Let me know how Jane has her health - the Weather is untell you what - on the 23rd was Shakespeare born - now if I should receive a Letter from you and another from my Brothers on that day ';twould be a parlous good thing-Whenever you write say a Word or two on some Passage in Shakespeare that may have come rather new to you; which must be continually happening, notwithstanding that we read the same Play forty times - for instance, the following, from the Tempest, never struck me so forcibly as at present,
"Urchins Shall, for that vast of Night that they may work,
All exercise on thee - "
How can I help bringing to your mind the Line-In the dark backward and abysm of time.
I find that I cannot exist without poetry - without eternal poetry - half the day will not do - the whole of it - I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan - I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late - the Sonnet over leaf did me some good. I slept the better last night for it - this Morning, however, I am nearly as bad again - Just now I opened Spencer, and the first Lines I saw were these. -  
"The noble Heart that harbors virtuous thought,
And is with Child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest, until it forth have brought
Th'; eternal Brood of Glory excellent - "
Let me know particularly about Haydon; ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be only ten lines - I hope all is well  - I shall forthwith begin my Endymion, which I hope I shall have got some way into by the time you come, when we will read our verses in a delightful place I have set my heart upon near the Castle - Give my Love to your Sisters severally - To George and Tom - Remember me to Rice Mr and Mrs Dilk[e] and all we know -  
Your sincere Friend
John Keats.
Direct J. Keats, Mrs Cook';s new Village, Carisbrooke

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[b]Notes[/b]:Keats quotes from Shakespeare';s The Tempest, A Midsummer';s Night';s Dream, and King Lear.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-14 at 12:01 AM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/24 09:34pm 第 1 次编辑]

[b]To Leigh Hunt, 10 May 1817[/b]
[quote]';These last two day[s] however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more than other Men, - seeing how great a thing it is, - how great things are to be gained by it  - .... When I consider that so many of these Pin points go to form a Bodkin point (God send I end not my Life with a bare Bodkin, in its modern sense) and that it requires a thousand bodkins to make a Spear bright enough to throw any light to posterity - I see that nothing but continual uphill Journeying!';[/quote]


[b]Recipient[/b]:Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was a devoted friend and supporter of Keats.  Lending books, giving advice, engaging in ';composition contests, printing and praising Keats';s poetry, Hunt also introduced Keats to Haydon, Shelley, and others. Hunt';s radical politics, however, earned him the enmity of influential critics. And since Keats was regarded as Hunt';s protégé, he suffered the same fate. He understandably wished to distance his poetry from Hunt';s influence (perceived or otherwise), but they remained friends.  Hunt later traveled to Italy where he began an ill-fated literary journal with Shelley and Byron.  In 1828, he wrote a biographical sketch of Keats.
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[b]Introduction[/b]:This is a wonderfully rambling letter, typical of Keats, which discusses mutual friends, literary critics, and Keats';s ambition.  

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Margate May 10th -  
My dear Hunt,
The little Gentleman that sometimes lurks in a gossips bowl ought to have come in very likeness of a coasted crab and choaked me outright for not having answered your Letter ere this - however you must not suppose that I was in Town to receive it; no, it followed me to the isle of Wight and I got it just as I was going to pack up for Margate, for reasons which you anon shall hear. On arriving at this treeless affair I wrote to my Brother George to request C. C. C. to do the thing you wot of respecting Rimini; and George tells me he has undertaken it with great Pleasure; so I hope there has been an understanding between you for many Proofs -   - C. C. C. is well acquainted with Bensley. Now why did you not send the Key of your Cupboard which I know was full of Papers? We would have lock';d them all in a trunk together with those you told me to destroy; which indeed I did not do for fear of demolishing Receipts. There not being a more unpleasant thing in the world (saving a thousand and one others) than to pay a Bill twice. Mind you - old Wood';s a very Varmant-sharded in Covetousness - And now I am upon a horrid subject - what a horrid one you were upon last sunday and well you handled it. The last Examiner was [a] Battering Ram against Christianity - Blasphemy - Tertullian - Erasmus - Sr. Philip Sidney. And then the dreadful Petzelians and their expiation by Blood - and do Christians shudder at the same thing in a Newspaper which the [?] attribute to their God in its most aggravated form? What is to be the end of this? I must mention Hazlitt';s Southey -  O that he had left out the grey hairs! Or that they had been in any other Paper not concluding with such a Thunderclap - that sentence about making a Page of the feelings of a whole life appears to me like a Whale';s back in the Sea of Prose. I ought to have said a word on Shakspeare';s Christianity - there are two, which I have not looked over with you, touching the thing: the one for, the other against. That in favor is in Measure for Measure Act 2. S. 2 Isab. Alas! alas!
Why all the Souls that were, were forfeit once
And he that might the vantage best have took,
Found out the Remedy -  
That against is in Twelfth Night. Act 3. S. 2. Maria - for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible Passages of grossness! Before I come to the Nymphs I must get through all disagreeables - I went to the Isle of Wight - thought so much about Poetry so long together that I could not get to sleep at night - and moreover, I know not how it was, I could not get wholesome food - By this means in a Week or so I became not over capable in my upper Stories, and set off pell mell for Margate, at least 150 Miles - because forsooth I fancied that I should like my old Lodging here, and could contrive to do without Trees. Another thing I was too much in Solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought as an only resource.
However Tom is with me at present and we are very comfortable. We intend though to get among some Trees. How have you got on among them? How are the Nymphs? I suppose they have led you a fine dance-Where are you now. In Judea, Cappadocia, or the Parts of Lybia about Cyrene, Strangers from "Heaven, Hues and Prototypes. I wager you have given given several new turns to the old saying "Now the Maid was fair and pleasant to look on" as well as mad[e] a little variation in "once upon a time" perhaps too you have rather varied "thus endeth the first Lesson" I hope you have made a Horseshoe business of - "unsuperfluous lift" "faint Bowers" and fibrous roots. I vow that I have been down in the Mouth lately at this Work. These last two day[s] however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more than other Men, - seeing how great a thing it is, - how great things are to be gained by it  - What a thing to be in the Mouth of Fame - that at last the Idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seeming Power of attainment that the other day I nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaeton - yet ';tis a disgrace to fail even in a huge attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began my Poem about a Fortnight since and have done some every day except travelling ones  - Perhaps I may have done a good deal for the time but it appears such a Pin';s Point to me that I will not coppy any out. When I consider that so many of these Pin points go to form a Bodkin point (God send I end not my Life with a bare Bodkin, in its modern sense) and that it requires a thousand bodkins to make a Spear bright enough to throw any light to posterity - I see that nothing but continual uphill Journeying! Now is there any thing more unpleasant (it may come among the thousand and one) than to be so journeying and miss the Goal at last. But I intend to whistle all these cogitations into the Sea where I hope they will breed Storms violent enough to block up all exit from Russia. Does Shelley go on telling strange Stories of the Death of Kings? Tell him there are strange Stories of the death of Poets - some have died before they were conceived "how do you make that out Master Vellum". Does Mrs. S. cut Bread and Butter as neatly as ever? Tell her to procure some fatal Scissors and cut the thread of Life of all to be disappointed Poets. Does Mrs Hunt tear linen in half as straight as ever? Tell her to tear from the book of Life all blank Leaves. Remember me to them all - to Miss Kent and the little ones all.
Your sincere friend
John Keats alias Junkets -  

You shall know where we move -  

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[b]Notes[/b]:  Keats, of course, meant ';roasted'; crab and not ';coasted';.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-13 at 11:59 PM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/24 09:32pm 第 2 次编辑]

[b]To Benjamin Robert Haydon, 10-11 May 1817[/b]
[quote]';Is it too daring to Fancy Shakspeare this Presidor?';
';You tell me never to despair--I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying--truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals--it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling block I have to fear--I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment.';
';I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions--the looking upon the Sun the Moon the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things--that is to say ethereal things--but here I am talking like a Madman greater things that our Creator himself made!!';[/quote]

[b]Recipient[/b]:The painter Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-1846) met Keats at Leigh Hunt';s home in October 1816.  They were close and devoted friends for the next three years. Haydon included Keats';s face in his historical painting Christ';s Triumphant Entry into Jerusalem, along with Hazlitt';s, Wordsworth';s, and Lamb';s. Their friendship ended in June 1819 when Haydon quarreled with their mutual friends Hunt and John Hamilton Reynolds and reneged on a loan Keats had made him. Haydon';s work never achieved popular or critical success and he committed suicide in 1846.  He remains the source of most well-known anecdotes about Keats; he also held the famous ';Immortal Dinner'; of 1817, which Keats attended with Wordsworth and Lamb.
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[b]Introduction[/b]:This letter is typical of the many Keats sent to Haydon while beginning his poetic career.He writes to Haydon as a fellow artist and discusses their mutual ambition.

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Margate Saturday Eve
My dear Haydon,
Let Fame, which all hunt after in their Lives,
Live register';d upon our brazen tombs,
And so grace us in the disgrace of death:
When spite of cormorant devouring time
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That Honor which shall bate his Scythe';s keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.
To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in this speech would be death to me me so I have e';en written it--and I pray God that our brazen Tombs be nigh neighbors. It cannot be long first the endeavor of this present breath will soon be over--and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our sojourn--it is as well if you have not been teased with that Money affair--that bill-pestilence. However I must think that difficulties nerve the Spirit of a Man--they make our Prime Objects a Refuge as well as a Passion. The Trumpet of Fame is as a tower of Strength the ambitious bloweth it and is safe. I suppose by your telling me not to give way to forebodings George has mentioned to you what I have lately said in my Letters to him--truth is I have been in such a state of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate them. I am "one that gathers Samphire dreadful trade" the Cliff of Poesy Towers above me--yet when, Tom who meets with some of Pope';s Homer in Plutarch';s Lives reads some of those to me they seem like Mice to mine. I read and write about eight hours a day. There is an old saying "well begun is half done" --';tis a bad one. I would use instead--"Not begun at all till half done" so according to that I have not begun my Poem and consequently (a priori) can say nothing about it. Thank God! I do begin arduously where I leave off, notwithstanding occasional depressions: and I hope for the support of a High Power while I clime this little eminences and especially in my Years of more momentous Labor. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over you. I have of late had the same thought--for things which [I] do half at Random are afterwards confirmed by my judgment in a dozen features of Propriety. Is it too daring to Fancy Shakspeare this Presidor? When in the Isle of Whight I met with a Shakspeare in the Passage of the House at which I lodged--it comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen--I was but there a Week yet the old Woman made me take it with me though I went off in a hurry--Do you not think this is ominous of good? I am glad you say every Man of great Views is at times tormented as I am--

Sunday Aft. This Morning I received a letter from George by which it appears that Money Troubles are to follow us up for some time to come perhaps for always--these vexations are a great hindrance to one--they are not like Envy and detraction stimulants to further exertion as being immediately relative and reflected on at the same time with the prime object--but rather like a nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem by the Autumn which I should have done had I gone on as I have done--but I cannot write while my spirit is fevered in a contrary direction and I am now sure of having plenty of it this Summer. At this moment I am in no enviable Situation--I feel that I am not in a Mood to write any to day; and it appears that the loss of it is the beginning of all sorts of irregularities. I am extremely glad that a time must come when every thing will leave not a wrack behind. You tell me never to despair--I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying--truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals--it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling block I have to fear--I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. However every ill has its share of good--this very bane would at any time enable me to look with an obstinate eye on the Devil Himself--ay to be as proud of being the lowest of the human race as Alfred could be in being of the highest. I feel confident I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine. I am very sure that you do love me as your own Brother--I have seen it in your continual anxiety for me--and I assure you that your wellfare and fame is and will be a chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions--the looking upon the Sun the Moon the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things--that is to say ethereal things--but here I am talking like a Madman greater things that our Creator himself made!! I wrote to Hunt yesterday--scarcly know what I said in it. I could not talk about Poetry in the way I should have liked for I was not in humor with either his or mine. His self delusions are very lamentable they have inticed him into a Situation which I should be less eager after than that of a galley Slave--what you observe thereon is very true must be in time.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-14 at 12:01 AM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/24 09:29pm 第 1 次编辑]

Perhaps it is a self delusion to say so--but I think I could not be be deceived in the Manner that Hunt is--may I die tomorrow if I am to be. There is no greater Sin after the 7 deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great Poet--or one of those beings who are privileged to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of Honor--how comfortable a feel it is that such a Crime must bring its heavy Penalty? That if one be a Selfdeluder accounts will be balanced? I am glad you are hard at Work--t will now soon be done--I long to see Wordsworth';s as well as to have mine in: but I would rather not show my face in Town till the end of the Year--if that will be time enough--if not I shall be disappointed if you do not write for me even when you think best. I never quite despair and I read Shakspeare--indeed I shall I think never read any other Book much--Now this might lead me into a long Confab but I desist. I am very near Agreeing with Hazlit that Shakspeare is enough for us--By the by what a tremendous Southean Article his last was--I wish he had left out "grey hairs" It was very gratifying to meet your remarks of the Manuscript --I was reading Anthony and Cleopatra when I got the Paper and there are several Passages applicable to the events you commentate. You say that he arrived by degrees and not by any single struggle to the height of his ambition--and that his Life had been as common in particulars as other Mens. Shakspeare makes Enobarb say-Where';s Antony Eros--He';s walking in the garden--thus: and spurns the rush that lies before him; cries fool, Lepidus! In the same scene we find: "let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way." Dolabella says of Antony';s Messenger
"An argument that he is pluck';d when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing"--Then again, Eno--"I see Men';s Judgments are A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike"--The following applies well to Bertram
"Yet he that can endure To follow with allegience a fallen Lord, Does conquer him that did his Master conquer, And earns a place i'; the story"
But how differently does Buonap bear his fate from Antony!
';Tis good too that the Duke of Wellington has a good Word or so in the Examiner. A Man ought to have the Fame he deserves--and I begin to think that detracting from him as well as from Wordsworth is the same thing. I wish he had a little more taste--and did not in that respect "deal in Lieutenantry". You should have heard from me before this--but in the first place I did not like to do so before I had got a little way in the 1st Book and in the next as G. told me you were going to write I delayed till I had hea[r]d from you. Give my Respects the next time you write to the North and also to John Hunt--
Remember me to Reynolds and tell him to write--Ay, and when you sent Westward tell your Sister that I mentioned her in this--So now in the Name of Shakespeare Raphael and all our Saints I commend you to the care of heaven!
Your everlasting friend
John Keats--


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[b]Notes[/b]:The opening quote is from Love';s Labour';s Lost.

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-3-14 at 12:02 AM [/i]]

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2004/11/24 09:27pm 第 1 次编辑]

[b]To Benjamin Bailey, 8 October 1817[/b]
[QUOTE]';Do not the Lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second Reading: which may be food for a Week';s stroll in the Summer?';
';Haydon says to me Keats dont show your Lines to Hunt on any account or he will have done half for you - so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought.';[/QUOTE]

[b]Recipient[/b]: Benjamin Bailey (1791-1853) was a student at Oxford when he and Keats became friends.  The friendship ended when Bailey, after passionately courting Marianne Reynolds, married Hamilton Gleig instead.  The marriage may have been determined by his career; Gleig was the daughter of the bishop of Brechin and Bailey was a country parson.  Keats';s last letter to Bailey was an achingly polite congratulations on his wedding.
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[b]Introduction[/b]:  In this letter, Keats discusses the politics of literary London and his growing disenchantment with Leigh Hunt.  He also mentions his fellow poets Wordsworth, Shelley, and Byron.  Note his signature - ';your sincere friend & brother'; - which shows his deep affection for Bailey, severed upon Bailey';s ambitious marriage.
The end of this letter is often quoted in biographies of Keats:  "The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the Poison and improved my Health - "  This has been used to suggest Keats was treating venereal disease with mercury.  True?  No one knows, but the mystery is discussed in Robert Gittings'; excellent biography.

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Hamps[t]ead Octr Wednesday
My dear Bailey,
After a tolerable journey I went from Coach to Coach to as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers - the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lambs Conduit Street and delivered your Parcel - Jane and Marianne were greatly improved Marianne especially she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face - but she comes me healthy and angular to the Chin - I did not see John I was extrem(e)ly sorry to hear that poor Rice after having had capital Health During his tour, was very ill. I dare say you have heard from him. From No. 19  I went to Hunt';s and Haydon';s who live now neighbours. Shelley was there - I know nothing about any thing in this part of the world - every Body seems at Loggerheads. There';s Hunt infatuated - theres Haydon';s Picture in statu quo. There';s Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully - There';s Horace Smith tired of Hunt. The web of our Life is of mingled Yarn" Haydon having removed  entirely from Marlborough street Crips must direct his Letter to Lisson Grove North Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown';s in came Reynolds - he was pretty bobbish we had a pleasant day - but he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. Mrs Bentley';s children are making a horrid row - whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary Men and will never know another except Wordsworth - no not even Byron - Here is an instance of the friendships of such - Haydon and Hunt have known each other many years - now they live pour ainsi dire jealous Neighbours. Haydon says to me Keats dont show your Lines to Hunt on any account or he will have done half for you - so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the Theatre John told him that I was getting on to the completion of 4000 Lines. Ah I says Hunt, had it not been for me they would have been 7000 ! If he will say this to Reynolds what would he to other People? Haydon received a Letter a little while back on this subject from some Lady - which contains a caution to me through him on this subject - Now is not all this a most paultry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following extract from a Letter I wrote to George in the spring "As to what you say about my being a poet, I can retu[r]n no answer but by saying that the high Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering to high above me. At any rate I have no right to talk until Endymion is finished - it will be a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagination and chiefly of my invention which is a rare thing indeed - by which I must make 4000 Lines of one bare circumstance and fill them with Poetry; and when I consider that this is a great task, and that when done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the Temple of Fame - it makes me say - God forbid that I should be without such a task  I have heard Hunt say and may be asked - why endeavour after a long Poem? To which I should answer - Do not the Lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second Reading: which may be food for a Week';s stroll in the Summer? Do not they like this better than what they can read through before Mrs Williams comes down stairs? a Morning work at most. Besides a long Poem is a test of Invention which I take to be the Polar Star of Poetry, as Fancy is the Sails, and Imagination the Rudder. Did our great Poets ever write short Pieces? I mean in the shape of Tales - This same invention seems i[n]deed of late Years to have been forgotten as a Poetical excellence(.) But enough of this, I put on no Laurels till I shall have finished Endymion, and I hope Apollo is (not) angered at my having made a Mockery at him at Hunts" You see Bailey how independant my writing has been - Hunts dissuasion was of no avail - I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfetterd scope - and after all I shall have the Reputation of Hunt';s elevé - His corrections and amputations will by the knowing ones be trased in the Poem - This is to be sure the vexation of a day - nor would I say so many Words about it to any but those whom I know to have my wellfare and Reputation at Heart - Haydon promised to give directions for those Casts and you may expect to see them soon - with as many Letters You will soon hear the dinning of Bells - never mind you and Gleg will defy the foul fiend - But do not sacrifice your heal[t]h to Books do take it kindly and not so voraciously. I am certain if you are your own Physician your stomach will resume its proper strength and then what great Benefits will follow. My Sister wrote a Letter to me which I think must be at (....) post office Ax Will to see. My Brothers kindest remembrances to you - we are going to dine at Brown';s where I have some hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the Poison and improved my Health - though I feel from my employment that I  shall never be again secure in Robustness - would that you were as well as
your sincere friend & brother
John Keats
The Dilks are expected to day -

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[b]Notes[/b]: Mrs Bentley was Keats';s landlady at 1 Well Walk, Hampstead.  Mrs Williams was a friend of Dr Johnson; Keats was reading Johnson';s notes on Shakespeare and disagreeing with most of it.  Keats refers to making a mockery of Apollo at Hunt';s when he allowed Hunt to crown him with laurel.  ';Ax Will'; is a slang expression, perhaps referring to a servant.

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[专题]怀念济慈

[b]To J H Reynolds, 22 November 1817[/b]
[QUOTE]';One of the three Books I have with me is Shakespear';s Poems: I neer found so many beauties in the Sonnets--they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne?';[/QUOTE]

[b]Recipient[/b]: John Hamilton Reynolds (1794-1852) met Keats at Leigh Hunt';s home in October 1816.  Reynolds later introduced Keats to Charles Brown, James Rice, Benjamin Bailey, Charles Wentworth Dilke (among others), as well as his future publisher, John Taylor.  Reynolds had dabbled in poetry himself but abandoned it for a career in law.  He was a passionate advocate of Keats';s work and a devoted friend.  They discussed poetry and planned several works together.
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[b]Introduction[/b]: This letter to Reynolds includes a discussion of Shakespeare and many quotations from his works.  Keats also sends Reynolds a selection from his own Endymion.

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Saturday
My Dear Reynolds
There are two things which tease me here--one of them Crips, and the other that I cannot go with Tom into Devonshire--however I hope to do my duty to myself in a week or so; and then I';ll try what I can do for my neighbour--now is not this virtuous? on returning to Town--I';ll d#amn all Idleness--indeed, in superabundance of employment, I must not be content to run here and there on little two-penny errands--but turn Rakehell, ie go a masking or Bailey will think me just as great a Promise Keeper as he thinks you--for myself I do not,-and do not remember above one Complaint against you for matter o'; that--Bailey writes so abominable a hand, to give his Letter a fair reading requires a little time: so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas--I';ll go with you. You know how poorly Rice was--I do not think it was all corporeal--bodily pain was not used to keep him silent. I';ll tell you what; he was hurt at what your Sisters said about his joking with your Mother, he was, soothly to sain--It will all blow over. God knows, my Dear Reynolds, I should not talk any sorrow to you-you must have enough vexations--so I won';t any more--If I ever start a rueful subject in a Letter to you--blow me! Why don';t you--Now I was agoing to ask a very silly Question neither you nor any body else could answer, under a folio, or at least a Pamphlet--you shall judge--Why don';t you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may be called more particularly Heart-vexations? They never surprize me-lord! a man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world--I like this place very much. There is Hill & Dale and a little River--I went up Box hill this Evening after the Moon--you a'; seen the Moon--came down--and wrote some lines. Whenever I am separated from you, and not engaged in a continued Poem--every Letter shall bring you a lyric--but I am too anxious for you to enjoy the whole, to send you a particle. One of the three Books I have with me is Shakespear';s Poems: I neer found so many beauties in the Sonnets--they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye!
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And Summer';s green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard.
He has left nothing to say about nothing or anything: for
look at Snails, you know what he says about Snails, you know
where he talks about "cockled Snails"--well, in one of these
sonnets, he says--the chap slips into--no! I lie! this is in the
Venus and Adonis:1 the Simile brought it to my Mind.
Audi--As the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain
And there all smothered up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to put forth again:
So at his bloody view her eyes are fled,
Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.
He overwhelms a genuine Lover of Poesy with all manner of abuse, talking about--
"a poet';s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song."
Which by the by will be a capital Motto for my Poem, won';t it?--He speaks too of "Time';s antique pen"--and "april';s first born flowers"--and "deaths eternal cold".--
By the Whim King! I';ll give you a Stanza, because it is not material in connection and when I wrote it I wanted you to--give your vote, pro or con.--
Crystalline Brother of the belt of Heaven,
Aquarius! to whom King Jove hath given
Two liquid pulse-streams! ';stead of feather';d wings--
Two fan-like fountains--thine illuminings
For Dian play:
Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare,
Show cold through watery pinions: make more bright
The Star-Queen';s Crescent on her marriage night:
Haste Haste away!--
Now I hope I shall not fall off in the winding up, as the woman said to the [illegible word]--I mean up and down. I see there is an advertizement in the Chronicle to Poets--he is so overloaded with poems on the late Princess. --I Suppose you do not lack--send me a few--lend me thy hand to laugh a little--send me a little pullet sperm, a few finch eggs--and remember me to each of our Card playing Club--When you die you will all be turned into Dice, and be put in pawn with the Devil--for Cards they crumple up like any King--I mean John in the stage play what pertains Prince Arthur.
I rest
Your affectionate friend
John Keats
Give my love to both houses --hinc atque illinc.

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[b]Notes[/b]:Keats quotes from ';Love';s Labour';s Lost';, ';Venus and Adonis';, and the Sonnets.  And he did indeed use the ';stretched metre of an antique song'; quote on the title-page of Endymion.  He also quotes from Book IV of this work, lines 581-90.  The final paragraph makes reference to the death of Princess Charlotte on 6 November 1817.  The final paragraph also plays upon various Shakespearean works.

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[专题]怀念济慈

[b]To Benjamin Robert Haydon, 23 January 1818[/b]

[b]Recipient[/b]: The painter Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-1846) met Keats at Leigh Hunt';s home in October 1816.  They were close and devoted friends for the next three years.  Haydon included Keats';s face in his historical painting Christ';s Triumphant Entry into Jerusalem, along with Hazlitt';s, Wordsworth';s, and Lamb';s.  Their friendship ended in June 1819 when Haydon quarreled with their mutual friends Hunt and John Hamilton Reynolds and reneged on a loan Keats had made him.  Haydon';s work never achieved popular or critical success and he committed suicide in 1846.  He remains the source of most well-known anecdotes about Keats; he also held the famous ';Immortal Dinner'; of 1817, which Keats attended with Wordsworth and Lamb.
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[b]Introduction[/b]: This brief note discusses Haydon';s possible illustrations for Keats';s work.  Keats ends the letter by telling Haydon he will write to Taylor - and I have included the note to Taylor (written on the same day) below.

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Friday 23rd
My dear Haydon,
I have a complete fellow-feeling with you in this business --so much so that it would be as well to wait for a choice out of Hyperion--when that Poem is done there will be a wide range for you--in Endymion I think you may have many bits of the deep and sentimental cast--the nature of Hyperion will lead me to treat it in a more naked and grecian Manner--and the march of passion and endeavour will be undeviating--and one great contrast between them will be--that the Hero of the written tale being mortal is led on, like Buonaparte, by circumstance; whereas the Apollo in Hyperion being a fore-seeing God will shape his actions like one. But I am counting &c.
Your proposal pleases me--and, believe me, I would not have my Head in the shop windows from any hand but yours--no by Apelles!
I will write Taylor and you shall hear from me
Yours ever
John Keats--

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Friday 23rd
My dear Taylor,
I have spoken to Haydon about the Drawing--he would do it with all his Art and Heart too if so I will it--however he has written thus to me--but I must tell you first, he intends painting a finished picture from the Poem--thus he writes
"When I do any thing for your poem, it must be effectual--an honor to both of us--to hurry up a sketch for the season won';t do. I think an engraving from your head, from a Chalk drawing of mine--done with all my might-to which I would put my name, would answer Taylor';s Idea more than the other indeed I am sure of it--this I will do & this will be effectual and as I have not done it for any other human being--it will have an effect"
What think you of this? Let me hear. I shall have my second book in readiness forthwith--
Your';s most sincerely
John Keats--
If Reynolds calls tell him three lines would be acceptable for I am squat at Hampstead

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[专题]怀念济慈

[b]To Benjamin Bailey, 13 March 1818[/b]

[quote]';This is the thing- for I have been rubbing up my invention; trying several sleights--I first polish';d a cold, felt it in my fingers tried it on the table, but could not pocket it: I tried Chilblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight Boots, nothing of that sort would do, so this is, as I was going to say, the thing.';
';[....] the two uppermost thoughts in a Man';s mind are the two poles of his World he revolves on them and every thing is southward or northward to him through their means. We take but three steps from feathers to iron. Now my dear fellow I must once for all tell you I have not one Idea of the truth of any of my speculations--I shall never be a Reasoner because I care not to be in the right, when retired from bickering and in a proper philosophical temper. So you must not stare if in any future letter I endeavour to prove that Apollo as he had cat gut strings to his Lyre used a cats'; paw as a Pecten--and further from said Pecten';s reiterated and continual teasing came the term Hen peck';d.';[/quote]


[b]Recipient[/b]: Benjamin Bailey (1791-1853) was a student at Oxford when he and Keats became friends.  The friendship ended when Bailey, after passionately courting Marianne Reynolds, married Hamilton Gleig instead.  The marriage may have been determined by his career; Gleig was the daughter of the bishop of Brechin and Bailey was a country parson.  Keats';s last letter to Bailey was an achingly polite congratulations on his wedding.
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[b]Introduction[/b]: This letter includes several noteworthy passages, as well as the original draft of The Human Seasons.

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Teignmouth Friday
My dear Bailey,
When a poor devil is drowning, it is said he comes thrice to the surface, ere he makes his final sink--if however, even at the third rise, he can manage to catch hold of a piece of weed or rock, he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do now, of being saved. I have sunk twice in our Correspondence, have risen twice and been too idle, or something worse, to extricate myself. I have sunk the third time and just now risen again at this two of the Clock P.M. and saved myself from utter perdition--by beginning this, all drench';d as I am and fresh from the Water--and I would rather endure the present inconvenience of a Wet Jacket than you should keep a laced one in store for me. Why did I not stop at Oxford in my Way?--How can you ask such a Question? Why did I not promise to do so? Did I not in a Letter to you make a promise to do so?, Then how can you be so unreasonable as to ask me why I did not? This is the thing- for I have been rubbing up my invention; trying several sleights--I first polish';d a cold, felt it in my fingers tried it on the table, but could not pocket it: I tried Chilblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight Boots, nothing of that sort would do, so this is, as I was going to say, the thing.--I had a Letter from Tom saying how much better he had got, and thinking he had better stop--I went down to prevent his coming up. Will not this do? Turn it which way you like-it is selvaged all round. I have used it these three last days to keep out the abominable Devonshire Weather--by the by you may say what you will of devonshire: the thuth is, it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, haily, floody, muddy, slipshod County--the hills are very beautiful, when you get a sight of ';em--the Primroses are out, but then you are in--the Cliffs are of a fine deep Colour, but then the Clouds are continually vieing with them. The Women like your London People in a sort of negative way --because the native men are the poorest creatures in England--because Government never have thought it worth while to send a recruiting party among them. When I think of Wordsworth';s Sonnet ';Vanguard of Liberty! ye Men of Kent!'; the degenerated race about me are Pulvis Ipecac. Simplex--a strong dose. Were I a Corsair I';d make a descent on the South Coast of Devon, if I did not run the chance of having Cowardice imputed to me: as for the Men they';d run away into the methodist meeting houses, and the Women would be glad of it. Had England been a large devonshire we should not have won the Battle of Waterloo. There are knotted oaks--there are lusty rivulets there are Meadows such as are not--there are vallies of femminine Climate but there are no thews and Sinews--Moor';s Almanack is here a curiosity--Arms Neck and Shoulders may at least be seen there, and the Ladies read it as some out of the way romance. Such a quelling Power have these thoughts over me that I fancy the very Air of a deteriorating quality--I fancy the flowers, all precocious, have an Acrasian spell about them--I feel able to beat off the devonshire waves like soap froth. I think it well for the honor of Britain that Julius Cæsar did not first land in this County. A Devonshirer standing on his native hills is not a distinct object--he does not show against the light--a wolf or two would dispossess him. I like I love England. I like its strong Men. Give me a long brown plain for my Morning so I may meet with some of Edmond Ironside';s des[c]endants. Give me a barren mould so I may meet with some Shadowing of Alfred in the Shape of a Gipsey, a Huntsman or a Shepherd. Scenery is fine--but human nature is finer. The Sward is richer for the tread of a real, nervous, english foot--the eagles nest is finer for the Mountaineer has look';d into it--Are these facts or prejudices? Whatever they are, for them I shall never be able to relish entirely any devonshire scenery--Homer is very fine, Achilles is fine, Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine, Hamlet is fine, Lear is fine, but dwindled englishmen are not fine--Where too the Women are so passable, and have such english names, such as Ophelia, Cordelia &c--that they should have such Paramours or rather Imparamours. As for them I cannot, in thought help wishing as did the cruel Emperour, that they had but one head and I might cut it off to deliver them from any horrible Courtesy they may do their undeserving Countrymen.--I wonder I meet with no born Monsters--O Devonshire, last night I thought the Moon had dwindled in heaven. I have never had your Sermon from Wordsworth but Mrs Dilke lent it me. You know my ideas about Religion. I do not think myself more in the right than other people, and that nothing in this world is proveable. I wish I could enter into all your feelings on the subject merely for one short 10 Minutes and give you a Page or two to your liking. I am sometimes so very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a mere Jack a lanthen to amuse whoever may chance to be struck with its brilliance. As Tradesmen say every thing is worth what it will fetch, so probably every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer--being in itself a nothing--Ethereal thing[s] may at least be thus real, divided under three heads--Things real--things semireal --and no things. Things real--such as existences of Sun Moon & Stars and passages of Shakspeare. Things semireal such as Love, the Clouds &c which require a greeting of the Spirit to make them wholly exist--and Nothings which are made Great and dignified by an ardent pursuit --which by the by stamps the burgundy mark on the bottles of our Minds, insomuch as they are able to "consec[r]ate whate';er they look upon". I have written a Sonnet here of a somewhat collateral nature--so don';t imagine it an a propos des bottes.

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