After fifteen years I finally find myself in his garden, in front of his house, on a solitary morning with only the National Trust men present for the reconstruction. But I cannot enter. It is closed. Everything is quiet, even the working men seem to be muted and all there is remains the sound of wind in the trees and the shushing after. I am here. Is he?
The view across from John Keats home.
The path outside the "Old Bull and Bush" where Lord Byron, John Keats, Sir Walter Scott, Leigh Hunt and Percy Shelley all came to eat, recite and enjoy themselves.
The neighborhood of Keats is still red brick and coal stains, narrow winding cobblestone streets and overgrown gardens in the foregrounds of mansions for the rich and famous.
The park across the street from his neighborhood.
The neighborhood of Keats is still red brick and coal stains, narrow winding cobblestone streets and overgrown gardens in the foregrounds of mansions for the rich and famous.
The park across the street from his neighborhood.
The immortal trees of Hampstead.
