Letters (feat. Abbie Cornish & Ben Whishaw)

My dearest lady
I am now at a very pleasant cottage window
looking onto a beautiful hilly country
with a view of the sea
The morning is very fine
I do not know how elastic my spirit might be
What pleasure I might have in living here
if the rememberance of you did not weigh so upon me
Ask yourself, my love, whether 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 butterflys,
and lived but three summer days.
Three such days with you I could fill with more delight
than 50 common years could ever contain.
Will you confess this in a letter
you must write immediately and do all you can
to console me in it,
make it rich as a draft of poppies to intoxicate me,
write the softest words and kiss them
that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.
My dear Mr. Keats, thank you for your letter.
Lately I have felt so nervous and ill
that I had to stay five days in bed.
Having received your letter, I am up again,
Walking our paths on the heath.
I've begun a butterly farm in my bedroom in honor of us.
Samy and toots are cathching them for me.
Samuel has made a science of it
and is collecting both caterpillars and chrysalises
so we may have them fluttering about us a week or more.
I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks,
your loveliness and the hour of my death.
O that I could have possession of them both
in the same minute.
I never knew before what such a love as you
have made me feel was.
I did not believe in it.
But if you will fully love me,
though there may be some fire,
it will not be more than we can bear when moistened
and bedewed with pleasure.