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 favoured few will understand.
A chef d'auvre 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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American author and poet, born on November 5, 1850, and died on October 30, 1919. She was known for her works expressing optimistic views and moral lessons. Her most famous book was 'Poems of Passion'. Her poem 'Solitude' contains the famous lines, 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone'. Over her career, Wilcox became popularly known as a 'people's poet'.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When My Sweet Lady Sings

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

How The White Rose Came

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

The Beautiful Land Of Nod.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

After

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sonnet.

        Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some bee
    That goes forth through the summer day and sings.
    And gathers honey from all growing things
        In garden plot or on the clover lea.

        When the long afternoon grows late, and she
    Would seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings.
    So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,
        From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.

        So with my full, fond heart; for when it tries
    To lift itself to peace crowned heights, above
    The common way where countless feet have trod,
        Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,
    This growing weight of precious earthly love,
    Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Sonnet I

Nuns fret not at their convents narrow room,
And hermits are contented with their cells,
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnets scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

William Wordsworth

Sonnet.

Elegance floats about thee like a dress,
    Melting the airy motion of thy form
Into one swaying grace, and loveliness,
    Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,
Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress,
    Enriching it, as moonlight after storm
Mingles dark shadows into gentleness.
    A beauty that bewilders like a spell
Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow
    So pure in vein'd transparency doth tell
How spiritually beautiful art thou -
    A temple where angelic love might dwell.
Life in thy presence were a thing to keep,
Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.

Nathaniel Parker Willis

Chopin.

    I.


A    dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof,
Of the entangling waltz.    Bright eyebeams meet,
Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow
Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms
Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snow
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music!    How beneath the strain
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
One fundamental chord of constant pain,
The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,
The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.



    II.


Who shall proclaim the golden fable false
Of Orpheus' miracles?    This subtl...

Emma Lazarus

Sonnet

A poet of one mood in all my lays,
    Ranging all life to sing one only love,
    Like a west wind across the world I move,
Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.

The countries change, but not the west-wind days
    Which are my songs.    My soft skies shine above,
    And on all seas the colours of a dove,
And on all fields a flash of silver greys.

I make the whole world answer to my art
    And sweet monotonous meanings.    In your ears
I change not ever, bearing, for my part,
    One thought that is the treasure of my years,
A small cloud full of rain upon my heart
    And in mine arms, clasped, like a child in tears.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell