To the Sonnet

Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy walls
Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen,
And flood the soul’s abyss with moonlight sheen,
As well as darken passions’ gilded halls;
Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls
From which gush out the prisoned joy, or spleen⁠—
The silvery cascades, or the billows green,
And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls.
Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep,
Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole
Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues;
Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep;
Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul,
As well the crystal palace of his muse.