letter: but you know a favourite tune is hardest to be remembered when one wants it most and you, I know, have long ere this taken it for granted that I never have any speculations without associating you in them, where they are of a pleasant nature, and you know enough of me to tell the places where I haunt most, so that if you think for five minutes after having read this, you will find it a long letter, and see written in the Air before you, Your most affectionate friend John Keats. Remember me to all. Tom's remembrances to you. In sooth, I hope you are not too sanguine about that seal'-in sooth I hope it is not Brumidgeum-in double sooth I hope it is his-and in triple sooth I hope I shall have an impression. Such a piece of intelligence came doubly welcome to me while in your own County and in your own hand—not but I have blown up the said County for its urinal qualifications-the six first days I was here it did nothing but rain ; and at that time having to write to a friend I gave Devonshire a good blowing 1 A seal found in a field at Stratford-upon-Avon, and thought by Haydon to have belonged to Shakespeare. up-it has been fine for almost three days, and I was coming round a bit; but to day it rains again—with me the County is yet upon its good behaviour. I have enjoyed the most delightful Walks these three fine days beautiful enough to make me content here all the summer could I stay For there's Bishop's teign And King's teign And Coomb at the clear teign head— You may have your cream All spread upon barley bread. There's arch Brook And there's larch Brook There is Wild wood, A Mild hood To the sheep on the lea o' the down, With its green, thin spurs, There is Newton marsh With its spear grass harsh— A pleasant summer level Where the maidens sweet Of the Market Street, Do meet in the dusk to revel. There's the Barton rich And hedge for the thrush to live in For the buzzing bee And a bank for the wasp to hive in. And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken'd, And the violets white Sit in silver plight, And the green bud's as long as the spike end. Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled Prickets? Here's some dogrel for you-Perhaps you would like a bit of Bhrell : Where be ye going, you Devon Maid? And what have ye there in the Basket? I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, I love your hills, and I love your dales, |