THE SONNET
THE sonnet is a diamond flashing roundFrom every facet true rose-colored lights;A gem of thought carved in poetic nightsTo grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;A miniature of soul wherein are foundMarvels of beauty and resplendent sights;A drop of blood with which a lover writesHis heart's sad epitaph in its own bound;A pearl gained from dark waters when the deepRocked in its frenzied passion; the last noteHeard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat;A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,With crystal music. At this shrine of songHigh priests of poesy have worshipped long.
THE sonnet is a diamond flashing roundFrom every facet true rose-colored lights;A gem of thought carved in poetic nightsTo grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;A miniature of soul wherein are foundMarvels of beauty and resplendent sights;A drop of blood with which a lover writesHis heart's sad epitaph in its own bound;A pearl gained from dark waters when the deepRocked in its frenzied passion; the last noteHeard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat;A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,With crystal music. At this shrine of songHigh priests of poesy have worshipped long.
THE sonnet is a diamond flashing roundFrom every facet true rose-colored lights;A gem of thought carved in poetic nightsTo grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;A miniature of soul wherein are foundMarvels of beauty and resplendent sights;A drop of blood with which a lover writesHis heart's sad epitaph in its own bound;A pearl gained from dark waters when the deepRocked in its frenzied passion; the last noteHeard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat;A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,With crystal music. At this shrine of songHigh priests of poesy have worshipped long.
THE sonnet is a diamond flashing round
From every facet true rose-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.