Alone It Stands In Poesy'S Fair Land, A Temple By The Muses Set Apart; A Perfect Structure Of Consummate Art, By Artists Builded And By Genius Planned, Beyond The Reach Of The Apprentice Hand, Beyond The Ken Of The Untutored Heart, Like A Fine Carving In A Common Mart, Only The Favoured Few Will Understand. A Chef D'Auvre Toiled Over With Great Care, Yet Which The Unseeing Careless Crowd Goes By, A Plainly Set, But Well-Cut Solitaire, An Ancient Bit Of Pottery, Too Rare To Please Or Hold Aught Save The Special Eye, These Only With The Sonnet Can Compare.