Sonnets from the Portuguese

XIX. The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize;

I barter curl for curl upon that mart,

And from my poet's forehead to my heart

Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, -

As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes

The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart

The nine white Muse-brows. For this counters part, . . .

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 lack

No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.