My dearest girl;

　　According to all appearances I am to be separated from you as much as possible. How I shall be able to bear it, or whether it will not be worse than your presence now and then, I cannot tell. I must be patient, and in the meantime you must think of it as little as possible. Let me not longer detain you from going to Town—there may be no end to this emprisoning of you. Perhaps you had better not come before tomorrow evening: send me however without fail a good night. You know our situation—what hope is there if I should be recovered ever so soon—my very health with for will not suffer me to make any great exertion. I am recommended not even to read poetry much less write it. I wish I had even a little hope. I cannot say forget me—but I would mention that her are impossibilities in the world. No more of this—I am not strong enough to be weaned—take no notice of it in your good night. Happen what may I shall ever be my dearest Love.

　　Your affectionate

　　J—K—

　　My dear Fanny, -

　　Do not let your mother suppose that you hurt me by writing at night. For some reason or other your last night's note was not so treasureable as former ones. I would fain that you call me Love still. To see you happy and in high spirits is a great consolation to me - still let me believe that you are not half so happy as my restoration would make you. I am nervous, I own, and may think myself worse than I really am; if so you must indulge me, and pamper with that sort of tenderness you have manifested towards me in different Letters. My sweet creature when I look back upon the pains and torments I have suffered for you from the day I left you to go to the Isle of Wight; the ecstasies in which I have passed some days and the miseries in their turn, I wonder the more at the Beauty which has kept up the spell so fervently. When I send this round I shall be in the front parlor watching to see you show yourself for a minute in the garden. How illness stands as a barrier betwixt me and you! Even if I was well - I must make myself as good a Philosopher as possible. Now I have had opportunities of passing nights anxious and awake I have found other thoughts intrude upon me. "If I should die," said I to myself, "I have left no immortal work behind me - nothing to make my friends proud of my memory - but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered." Thoughts like these came very feebly whilst I was in health and every pulse beat for you - now you divide with this (may I say it?) "last infirmity of noble minds" all my reflection.

　　God bless you, Love.

　　J. Keat