Sonnet CCXXVIII:
Yet not because the world turns coldly by,
And makes its idols out of meaner clay,
Decking their shrines with wreaths of noble bay,
Shall I renounce the cheerless art I ply.
Under the desert’s hot and flickering sky,
I heard one morn a bird’s melodious lay;
And marvelled greatly at his vain display,
Alone himself, nor knowing aught was nigh.
Surely, I said, that minstrel’s liquid tone
Needs not the flattery of listening ears,
To make a temple of yon arid stone.
He sings to heaven his little hopes and fears,
In phrases suited to his heart alone,
And God, to hearken, hushes all the spheres.
