![](data:image/svg+xml;utf8,<svg xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" version="1.1" height="6162px" width="9243px"></svg>)
I n the 1980's a very literary theft took place: The Manhasset home of the late John Hay Whitney, a WWII veteran, newspaper publisher, former U.S. Ambassador to the United Kingdom, and president of the MoMA, was mysteriously burgled between the years 1982 and 1989. Whitney was an avid collector and owned works by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet, George Braques, and more. But the thieves targeted only one collection: rare books, 28 of them—most notably a volume containing the original love letters written by the poet John Keats to his fiancee Fanny Brawne.
The portfolio was only recently recovered after someone tried to sell it, and many of the other stolen books, to rare books dealers in New York. The Manhattan District Attorney’s office returned 17 books to the Whitney family while the investigation into who stole them in the first place continues.
The restitution is significant not only for the family but for the public—who will be given the opportunity on 25 June 2026 to own the volume of Keats letters themselves when they are offered to the market (with proceeds from the sale going to charity). The missives are simple and yet astonishingly beautiful, a tribute to expressing love in written form at a time when texts, emojis, and acronyms threaten to degrade speech for good.
Perhaps the most incredible aspect of these letters is their longevity. Will anyone be crooning over your texts in 200 years? Will you even remember them tomorrow? These letters, on the other hand, have staying power, offering readers separated from the writer by generations to experience the heart-aching romance that shaped a legendary poet.
Below, an abridged version of three of our favorite Keats letters (and Bridgerton’s Luke Thompson reading them aloud). The next time you’re moved to express your feelings, why not take a page from the poet and do so in a letter?
Write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.
[Shanklin, Isle of Wight Thursday 1 July 1819]
[Postmark, Newport, 3 July 1819]
My dearest Lady,
I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a Letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night—'twas too much like one out of Rousseau's Heloise. I am more reasonable this morning. The morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I love so much: for at night, when the lonely day has closed, and the lonely, silent, unmusical Chamber is waiting to receive me as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would not have you see those Rhapsodies which I once thought it impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me] either too unhappy or perhaps a little mad.
…
Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. 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 liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my Fate does not turn up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though I could centre my Happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely—indeed if I thought you felt as much for me as I do for you at this moment I do not think I could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one embrace.
But no—I must live upon hope and Chance. In case of the worst that can happen, I shall still love you—but what hatred shall I have for another!
Some lines I read the other day are continually ringing a peal in my ears:
To see those eyes I prize above mine own Dart favors on another— And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar) Be gently press'd by any but myself— Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing It were beyond expression!
J. KEATS
I have lov’d the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember’d.
[Wentworth Place, February 1820]
My dear Fanny,
…My sweet creature when I look back upon the pains and torments I have suffer’d for you from the day I left you to go to the Isle of Wight; the ecstasies in which I have pass’d 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 parlour 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 lov’d the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember’d.” 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. KEATS
I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known the more have I lov’d.
[Wentworth Place, March 1820]
Sweetest Fanny,
You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My dear Girl I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known the more have I lov’d. In every way—even my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you. I have vex’d you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass’d my window home yesterday, I was fill’d with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov’d your beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish’d with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy—but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment—upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about our Loves in your last note is an immense pleasure to me: however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out—but here is Mrs. Wylie—when she is gone I shall be awake for you.—Remembrances to your Mother.
Your affectionate,
J. KEATS.
