The Sonnet, II

There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive,
No spark from man's imperishable mind,
No moment of man's will, that may not find
Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward live
A potent elf, by art's imperative
Magic to crystal spheres of song confined; —
As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits wind
'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take and give.

Spare thou no pains; carve thought's pure diamond
With fourteen facets scattering fire and light: —
Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright?
And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand,
If spurning art's inexorable law,
In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw.