Part 7 — 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'œuvre 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.