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    Scorn Not the Sonnet; Critic, You Have Frowned

    by William Wordsworth
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    Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
    Mindless of its just honours; with this key
    Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
    Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
    A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
    Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief;
    The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
    Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
    His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
    It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland
    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!
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