This morning I woke up early from a dream set in Rome.
I thought for a minute that I was back in my beautiful narrow bedroom in the house on Piazza di Spagna. (Keats died in an identical bedroom on the floor below, now a part of the museum.)
I wanted to wander through the big dim flat and make coffee in the kitchen. And then watch through the windows as the dawn workers hosed down the empty Spanish Steps.
Maybe if I had another chance I would find the time to visit Keats's grave in Rome's Protestant Cemetery. I halfway intended to go out there, but the Roman church-interiors seemed always to call more urgently.
The views from Keats's windows would have been these same views. There were street lamps in his day too, though fewer and dimmer.
