Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.