Scorn Not the Sonnet, William Wordsworth

Scorn Not the Sonnet, William Wordsworth (1827)


Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned.
Mindless if uts just honors; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound'
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grieve;
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glow-warm lamp,
It cheered Spenser, called from Faeryland
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains - alas, too few!