Tuesday Poem: "On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters" by Oscar Wilde

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?

by Oscar Wilde

For more information about the poet, Oscar Wilde, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde