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 arduous fulness reverent:

Carve it in ivory or in ebony,

As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see

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

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