These are the letters which Endymion
To one he loved in secret and apart,
And now the brawlers of the
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Aye! for each separate pulse of passion
The merchant's price!
I think they love not
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
With torches through the midnight, and
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or his woe?
