Letters (feat. Abbie Cornish & Ben Whishaw)

Letters - Mark Bradshaw

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 remembrance 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 brighta fairer word than fair

I almost wish we were butterflies

And lived but three summer days

Three such days with you I could fill with more delight

Than 50 common years could ever contain

When you can 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

Have received your letter

I am up again walking our paths on the heath

I've begun a butterfly farm in my bedroom in honor of us

Sammy and Toots are catching 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 luxurious to brood over in my walks

Your loveliness and the hour of my death

O that O 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 pleasures