If some seem slighter sonnets and less strong
Remember, reader, that each plays its part
In building stone by stone the house of Art,—
Each is one note in a continuous song,
And, were each equal, each the whole would wrong:—
When midsummer is gay with butterflies
Some flaunt blue wings as azure as the skies,
Some red, some yellow,—motley is the throng.

And so with sonnets;—if the whole be fair,
Blame not one sonnet in that whiter wings
It waved than those its golden sister brings:
Contrast is good,—and leisure to compare:
Each with its own voice in the chorus sings;
Each to my Lady a long-lost gift doth bear.