The Sonnet

Alone it stands in Poesy’s fair land,

A temple by the muses set apart;

A perfect structure of consummate art,

By artists builded and by genius planned.

Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,

Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,

Like a fine carving in a common mart,

Only the favored few will understand.

A chef-d’oeuvre toiled over with great care,

Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,

A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire,

An ancient bit of pottery, too rare

To please or hold aught save the special eye,

These only with the sonnet can compare.