The Sonnet

Pure form, that like some chalice of old time

Contain'st the liquid of the poet's thought

Within thy curving hollow, gem-enwrought

With interwoven traceries of rhyme,

While o'er thy brim the bubbling fancies climb,

What thing am I, that undismayed have sought

To pour my verse with trembling hand untaught

Into a shape so small yet so sublime?

Because perfection haunts the hearts of men,

Because thy sacred chalice gathered up

The wine of Petrarch, Shakspere, Shelley -- then

Receive these tears of failure as they drop

(Sole vintage of my life), since I am fain

To pour them in a consecrated cup.