AT VERONA
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OW steep the stairs within King’s houses areFor exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,And O how salt and bitter is the breadWhich falls from this Hound’s table,—better farThat I had died in the red ways of war,Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,Than to live thus, by all things comradedWhich seek the essence of my soul to mar. ‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?He hath forgotten thee in all the blissOf his gold city, and eternal day’—Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded barsI do possess what none can take away,My love and all the glory of the stars. 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?
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