Sonnet 19 - The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise
XIX
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise;I barter curl for curl upon that mart,And from my poet's forehead to my heartReceive this lock which outweighs argosies,—As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyesThe dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwartThe nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lackNo natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
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