On the Sale by Auction of Keats' Love Letters

These are the letters which Endymion wroteTo one he loved in secret, and apart.And now the brawlers of the auction martBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quoteThe merchant's price. I think they love not artWho break the crystal of a poet's heartThat small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ranWith torches through the midnight, and beganTo wrangle for mean raiment, and to throwDice for the garments of a wretched man,Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?