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    On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters

    by Oscar Wilde
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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,
    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 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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