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.