poetry I have seen a long while; full of those embodyings of the most subtle and airy imaginations,—­those arrestings and explanations of the most shadowy yearnings of our being—­which are the most difficult of all things to put into words, and the most delightful when put.  I do not know whether you are aware how fond I am of your song on the Skylark; but you ought, if Ollier sent you a copy of the enlarged Calendar of Nature, which he published separately under the title of the Months.  I tell you this, because I have not done half or a twentieth part of what I ought to have done to make your writings properly appreciated.  But I intended to do more every day, and now that I am coming to you, I shall be totus in you and yours!  For all good, and healthy, and industrious things, I will do such wonders, that I shall begin to believe I make some remote approach to something like a return for your kindness.  Yet how can that be?  At all events, I hope we shall all be the better for one another’s society.  Marianne, poor dear girl, is still very ailing and weak, but stronger upon the whole, she thinks, than when she first left London, and quite prepared and happy to set off on her spring voyage.  She sends you part of her best love.  I told her I supposed I must answer Marina’s letter for her, but she is quite grand on the occasion, and vows she will do it herself, which, I assure you, will be the first time she has written a letter for many months.  Ask Marina if she will be charitable, and write one to me.  I will undertake to answer it with one double as long.  But what am I talking about, when the captain speaks of sailing in a fortnight?  I was led astray by her delightful letter to Marianne about walks, and duets, and violets, and ladies like violets.  Am I indeed to see and be in the midst of all these beautiful things, ladies like lilies not excepted?  And do the men in Italy really leave ladies to walk in those very amiable dry ditches by themselves?  Oh! for a few strides, like those of Neptune, when he went from some place to some other place, and ‘did it in three!’ Dear Shelley, I am glad my letter to Lord B. pleased you, though I do not know why you should so thank me for it.  But you are ingenious in inventing claims for me upon your affection.

To HORACE SMITH

Shelley’s death

Pisa, 25 July, 1822.

Dear Horace,

I trust that the first news of the dreadful calamity which has befallen us here will have been broken to you by report, otherwise I shall come upon you with a most painful abruptness; but Shelley, my divine-minded friend, your friend, the friend of the universe, he has perished at sea.  He was in a boat with his friend Captain Williams, going from Leghorn to Lerici, when a storm arose, and it is supposed the boat must have foundered.  It was on the 8th instant, about four or five in the evening, they guess.  A fisherman