To Mr John Keats, chez M le Professeur Andrea Vaccà, Pisa
My John,
Buongiorno & Buona sera—e mille Buongiorni & so many Buone sere more! You see I have got on. Ask me not how. Only promise you shall marvel enough when I step on to the Italian shore singing like a bird in my new language, & it shall content me. I have half a dozen lines of Byron to set down but I refrain as you disapprove of him—I have been reading the Spenser you left me, but I will not quote it. It is rich as Treacle & as slow. You will write poems of Italy better than them all. O to be near you in that sun! Wentworth Place misses you but you should not miss its Weather—gray skies & rain pelunking on the Panes with no change this fortnight. Mother & the family are very well. I see less of Mr Brown now he is a family man
