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 impearl’d 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 serves, or ‘mid the dark wharfs cavernous breath,
In Charon's palm it pays the toll to Death.