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 counterpart, ...
The bay crown’ s shade, Belovë d, 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.