Sonnet VII.
Let the sublimer Muse, who wrapt in night
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field with purple havock warm
Lashes her steeds and sings along the fight,-
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its mild cadence to conform
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowliest of the sylvan train
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
With wildest song,-me much behooves the aid
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,
And give it power to please, as soft it flows
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.
poem by Henry Kirke White
Added by Poetry Lover
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