I cannot go there, though I could take the car,
Then walk, and other places are not far,
Though further - twenty or thirty miles (at least
This side the water). But I'm too old a beast
To walk more than a mile - prefer to hide
At home with books and fire: and plainly I'd
Rather not see what one sees now at Winchester
And St. Cross and Catherine's Hill, or Chichester.

This is Keats country, when he came alone
To plunge and launch out on Endymion
At Carisbrooke, where he first saw the sea
And wrote a sonnet: but thought of poetry
So much, alone, that soon he had to flee
The fire-storm raging in his mind, and cut
And run to join his brother Tom and shut
...