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 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?