Poems (Hardy)/The sonnet
For works with similar titles, see Sonnet.
Poems
SONNETS
THE SONNET
WRITE me a poem, fourteen liquid lines,— The secret of a heart, the longing of a soul; But mind your flowing numbers do not rollTheir waves beyond the exquisite confinesThe little garden of the sonnet shines Resplendent in; and mind you quite control That golden strand of rimes,—one, two,—whose soleReiterance your major chord entwines.Let not your hand a lingering moment waste Till it has captured, where it floats and sings, The birdlike thought you scarce can say you hear;Back to its thicket, else, it hies, untraced, And leaves the poor sestette with trailing wings, And me without the verse I hold so dear.