Scorn now the sonnet -- that enchanted reed Italia wrought for Will of Avon's art; Which in his blindness solaced Milton's heart; Which rallied Sidney in his hour of need; Which Wordsworth lifted, loveliness to plead; Whereon Brooke sang the warrior's valorous part Is now a penny flute in any mart -- Yea, Petrarch's pipe is as a broken weed! Hark now these quavers -- poets their lips setting To sing moon fancies on the sturdy horn -- Enamored of its glory, and forgetting This trumpet for sublimity was born! Hark, how it trembles! Shall we no more hear The ringing splendor of the sonneteer? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |