To The Sonnet

Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy walls Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen, And flood the soul’s abyss with moon-light sheen, As well as darken passions’ gilded halls ; Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls From which gush out the prisoned joy, or spleen— The silvery cascades, or the billows green, And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls. Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep, Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues ; Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep ; Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul, As well the crystal palace of his muse.