The Poetry Corner

Sonnets From The Portuguese XIX

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The souls Rialto hath its merchandize; I barter curl for curl upon that mart, And from my poets forehead to my heart Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, As purply black, as erst to Pindars eyes The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . . The bay crowns shade, Belovd, 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.