Read "The Sonnet" by Edith Wharton online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
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.