My dearest lady, I am now at a very pleasant cottage window, looking onto a beautifully hilly country, with a view of the sea. The morning is very fine. I did not know how lasted my spirit may be, what pleasure I may have of living here if the remembrance of you did not weight so upon me. Ask yourself my love if 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 bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies, and live but three summer days, three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. When you confess this in a letter, must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it. Make it rich as a draught of paupers to intoxicate me with it. Write the softest words, and kiss them…
that I may at least touch my lips to where yours have been.
- John Keats to Fanny Brawne

(via rosylipsandcheeks)