A reading of one of the love poems Keats wrote for Fanny Brawne, his beloved fiancee and muse.

In the letters he wrote to her, Keats sometimes reproached Fanny for what he saw as flirtatious behaviour that made him feel jealous. In this poem Keats talks about struggling with such feelings.

Text taken from "The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats", Houghton, Mifflin, 1899.

First image in order of appearance: "Portrait miniature of Fanny Brawne, in watercolours", 1833. The image is a resized and cropped version of a photo uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by user Spanglej ([ Ссылка ]). This file has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.
Second image in order of appearance is a cropped version of an image by DarkWorkX from Pixabay ([ Ссылка ]).

Third image in order of appearance: Ambrotype of Fanny Brawne, lover of John Keats, taken circa 1850 (photograph on glass). The image is a resized version of a photo uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by users Spanglej and Soerfm ([ Ссылка ]). This file has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.


"Ode to Fanny" by John Keats

Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great Nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.
I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, --
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn --
But pr'ythee, do not turn
The current of your heart from me so soon.
O! save, in charity,
The quickest pulse for me.

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
Be like an April day,
Smiling and cold and gay,
A temperate lily, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be
A warmer June for me.

Why, this -- you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new --
Must not a woman be
A feather on the sea,
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed
As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it -- and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
Nor, when away you roam,
Dare keep its wretched home,
Love, love alone, has pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,
From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake:
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not -- may my eyes close,
Love! on their last repose.

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