Vita nuova
Day came in the English style, sunless and cool, with a white glow that got inside things and made them radiate. Keats put his head out the window and sucked in the damp. For the first time in a year he felt no answering ache in his breast. The river was a crescent of smooth lead this morning, solid as the bricks along the bank.
The doctors might say what they liked. He was well. He must go.
And go where, and how? No sign came to him as he wet his hair and face from the water-jar, which had in fact an acrid smell. Shelley wanted him here and Mrs. Shelley didn’t, but even had they both opened their arms, he would have shrunk back. Once again the offer came with too many conditions. Could Shelley even afford him? What was Shelley’s income? He’d never thought to wonder. Past a c
