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.