On the Sale by Auction of Keat's 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,

Aye! 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 or 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 wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw

Dice for the garments of a wretched man,

Not knowing the God's wonder, or his woe?