PURE form, that like some chalice of old time <br />Contain'st the liquid of the poet's thought <br />Within thy curving hollow, gem-enwrought <br />With interwoven traceries of rhyme, <br />While o'er thy brim the bubbling fancies climb, <br />What thing am I, that undismayed have sought <br />To pour my verse with trembling hand untaught <br />Into a shape so small yet so sublime? <br />Because perfection haunts the hearts of men, <br />Because thy sacred chalice gathered up <br />The wine of Petrarch, Shakspere, Shelley -- then <br />Receive these tears of failure as they drop <br />(Sole vintage of my life), since I am fain <br />To pour them in a consecrated cup.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sonnet-4/
