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.
