A sonnet is a moment’s monument,—

Memorial from the Soul’s eternity

To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,

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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 see

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Its flowering crest impearled and orient.

A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals

The soul,—its converse, to what Power ‘tis due:—

Whether for tribute to the august appeals

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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 of Death.