Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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"SCORN NOT THE SONNET"

          SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
          Mindless of its just honours; with this key
          Shakspeare 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 grief;
          The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
          Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
          His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
          It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland              10
          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!
                                                              1827.


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