SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, <br /> Mindless of its just honours; with this key <br /> Shakespeare unlock'd 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 Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief; <br /> The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf <br />Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd <br />His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, <br /> It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd 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/the-sonnet-ii/
