The Sonnet II
By William Wordsworth
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frownd,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlockd his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarchs wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camens soothd an exiles grief;
The Sonnet glitterd a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crownd
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheerd mild Spenser, calld from Faery-land
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!