On the Sale By Auction of Keats' Love Letters

These are the letters which Endymion wrote

    To one he loved in secret, and apart.

    And now the brawlers of the auction mart

Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,

Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote

    The merchant’s price. I think they love not art

    Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart

That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,

    In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran

    With torches through the midnight, and began

To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw

    Dice for the garments of a wretched man,

Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?