Sonnet Xxi:

XXI Sometimes I fear thou'lt poise my muse's praise, Against my spoken words, and sharply cry 'This man breathes lightning through his poetry, Yet smoulders dully when aside he lays His singing laurel, and in common ways By loving actions, such as eyes may see, Essays to make his passion plain to me. These are but art's emotions--fiery rays Struck from the poet's brain. His torpid heart Sleeps on securely and was never wrung, For all the frenzied measures which he sung.' Ah, Love, misjudge not. Only through my art Can I speak plainly. Utterance would depart, If that were silent: 'tis my only tongue.