MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
I
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
‘A POET’!–He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand–must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free 10 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its ‘own’ divine vitality.