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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?
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