Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, <br />Mindless of its just honours; with this key <br />Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody <br />Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; <br />A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; <br />With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; <br />The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf <br />Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned <br />His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, <br />It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land <br />To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp <br />Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand <br />The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew <br />Soul-animating strains--alas, too few!<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scorn-not-the-sonnet/
