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And O how salt and bitter is the bread

Which falls from this Hound's table, - better far
That 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 comraded

Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?

He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day' -

Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded bars
I 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 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?

THE NEW REMORSE
The sin was mine; I did not understand.

So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave

Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land

Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave

One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?

(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?

It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,

And I shall weep and worship, as before.
End


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