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...THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH by ROBERT BROWNING THE PASSIONS: AN ODE FOR MUSIC by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) ROME. AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY by THOMAS HARDY MEMORY OF THE IRISH DEAD by JOHN KELLS INGRAM THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TO THE WINDS by BERNARD BARTON OXFORD IN WAR-TIME by LAURENCE BINYON THE NEW WORLD; TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES by LAURENCE BINYON |