Deathbed Literature | John Keats
My dearest Fanny,
The power of your benediction is not of so weak a nature as to pass from the ring in four and twenty hours – it is like a sacred Chalice once consecrated and ever consecrate.
I shall Kiss your name and mine where your Lips have been – Lips!
Why should a poor prisoner as I am talk about such things. Thank God, though I hold them the dearest pleasures in the universe, I have a consolation independent of them in the certainty of your affectation.
I could write a song in the style of Tom Moore’s Pathetic about Memory if that would be any relief to me.
No. It would not be. I will be as obstinate as a Robin, I will not sing in a cage.
Health is my expected heaven and you are the Houri – this word I believe is both singular and plural – if only plural, never mind – you are a thousand of them.
Ever yours affectionately