A Sonnet is a moment’s monument,—

Memorial from the soul’s eternity

To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,

Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,

Of its own intricate fulness reverent:

Carve it in ivory or in ebony,

As Day or Night prevail; and let Time see

It’s 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

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.