<h2>XIX</h2>
<p>The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandize;<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, Belovëd, I surmise,<br/>
Still lingers on thy curl, it is 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.</p>
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