The House Of Life

A Sonnet is a moment's monument,—Memorial from the Soul's

To one dead deathless hour.

Look that it be,

Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,

Of its own arduous fulness reverent:

Carve it in ivory or in ebony,

As Day or Night may rule; and let Time

Its flowering crest impearled and orient.

A Sonnet is a coin: its face

The soul,—its converse, to what Power 'tis due:—Whether for tribute to the august

Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue,

It serve; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath,

In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death.