Oscar Wilde — Sonnet: 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 tear-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?