THE EARTHEN GOBLET
(A conversation between the poet and the goblet)
“O silent goblet! red from head to heel, How did you feel When you were being twirled Upon the Potter’s wheel Before the Potter gave you to the world?” I felt a conscious impulse in my clay To break away From the great Potter’s hand That burned so warm. I felt a vast Feeling of sorrow to be cast Into my present form. Before that fatal hour That saw me captive on the Potter’s wheel And cast into this crimson goblet-sleep, I used to feel The fragrant friendship of a little flower Whose root was in my bosom buried deep. The Potter has drawn out the living breath of me, And given me a form which is the death of me; My past unshapely natural state was best, With just one flower flaming through my breast.
PITCHERS OF CLAY
Outside the Potter’s shop upon the way In patient rows we stand, pitchers of clay — Under a copper-clouded sky of gold Expecting every moment to be sold.
Although we have no language, yet we feel A bitterness towards the Potter’s wheel