THE SONNET
HOW fair thou art the poets long have known;
And I have sought the beauty which is thine
Through many days and nights of cloud and shine,
Until one note of all sweet notes outblown
Has spelled my ear; for dearest things alone
Are found companionless; and the divine
And single inspiration shall entwine
The laurel till it fit the brow of one.
And thou art rare among the things most rare;
The beam consummate of the lights of day;
The fullest note struck from the living flood
Of melody; the gem that has most care
In the kind workman's hand, till he shall say,
"Thy beauty is the acme of all good."