The sonnet is a diamond flashing round From every facet true rare colored lights; A gem of thought carved in poetic nights To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; A miniature of soul wherein are found Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; A drop of blood with which a lover writes His heart’s sad epitaph in its own bound; A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark’s throat; A cascade small flung in a canyon steep With crystal music. At this shrine of song High priests of poesy have worshipped long. |