Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900 / Dublin / Ireland)

On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters - Poem by Oscar Wilde

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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Read poems about / on: passion, god, heart, soldier, running



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003

Poem Edited: Wednesday, May 14, 2014


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