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,
It serve; or, ‘mid the dark wharf’ s cavernous breath,
In Charon’ s palm it pay the toll to Death.