 Brown wrote, "In the spring of 1819 a nightingale had built her nest near my house.Keats felt a tranquil and continual joy in her song; and one morning he took his chair from the breakfast-table to the grass-plot under a plum-tree, where he sat for two or three hours.When he came into the house, I perceived he had some scraps of paper in his hand, and these he was quietly thrusting behind the books.