The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise; <br />I barter curl for curl upon that mart, <br />And from my poet's forehead to my heart <br />Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,-- <br />As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes <br />The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart <br />The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart,... <br />The bay-crown's shade, Belovèd, I surmise, <br />Still lingers on thy curl, it so black! <br />Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, <br />I tie the shadows safe from gliding back, <br />And lay the gift where nothing hindereth; <br />Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack <br />No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xix-the-soul-s-rialto/
