时间：2009-09-15
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Letters - Mark Bradshaw
My dearest lady
I am now at a very pleasant cottage window
Looking onto a beautiful hilly country
With a view of the sea
The morning is very fine
I do not know how elastic my spirit might be
What pleasure I might have in living here
If the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me
Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me
So destroyed my freedom
For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form
I want a brighter word than brighta fairer word than fair
I almost wish we were butterflies
And lived but three summer days
Three such days with you I could fill with more delight
Than 50 common years could ever contain
When you can confess this in a letter
You must write immediately
And do all you can to console me in it
Make it rich as a draft of poppies
To intoxicate me
Write the softest words and kiss them
That I may at least touch my lips where yours have been
My dear Mr Keats thank you for your letter
Lately I have felt so nervous and ill
That I had to stay five days in bed
Have received your letter
I am up again walking our paths on the heath
I've begun a butterfly farm in my bedroom in honor of us
Sammy and Toots are catching them for me
Samuel has made a science of it
And is collecting both caterpillars and chrysalises
So we may have them fluttering about us a week or more
I have two luxurious to brood over in my walks
Your loveliness and the hour of my death
O that O could have possession of them both in the same minute
I never knew before what such a love as you have made me feel was
I did not believe in it
But if you will fully love me
Though there may be some fire
It will not be more than we can bear
When moistened and bedewed with pleasures
