The Sonnet

by Edith Wharton

　　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.