Scorn not the Sonnet - Wordsworth

      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;

      With it Camöens soothed 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 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!

 

                                                  W. Wordsworth (1770-1850) 

 

출처: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45547/scorn-not-the-sonnet