 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
108
THE SONNET.
The Sonnet is precisely as 'tis made.A random, crippled thing, with halting gait.
A dwarf, who cannot carry off the state
And air assumed. Conceited prig, betrayed
By trick of voice and manner, ill arrayed
In pompous phrases, without sense to mate.
Prim fop, who daintily his breath doth bate,
And smooths all down, flat, without light and shade.
'Tis of small stature, but of perfect size
And shape, with every limb symmetrical;
A lofty forehead, and expressive eyes;
A voice sustained, full, and most musical;
Lips on which Hybla's fine-wrought honey lies,
From which, like manna, wise words passing fall.
| Stones from The Quarry | |