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the most successful contributors to our wondrously rich store of sonnet literature.
A few modern specimens of great beauty are added to complete the sketch of the subject.
ON THE SONNET.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ;
And hermits are contented with their cells ;
And students with their pensive citadels ; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells: In truth the prison unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is ; and hence for me
In sundry moods, 'tis pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there as I have found.
The world is too much with us, late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers :
Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I The sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything we are out of tune ; It moves us not.—Great God ! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.