Sonnets from the Portuguese: XIX

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize;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, Belovèd, 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.