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.
