Which moulded us, what though without a flaw, To shape, which is against our being’s law.
Pitchers are beautiful and yet, indeed, Even from beauty we would all be freed And, slipping into Earth, secure escape From the enchanted tyranny of shape.
Some of us pitchers, tired of being, drop And break to pieces in the Potter’s shop. Pathetic things! What does the Potter care For the pale weariness of Earthenware?
SHAPER SHAPED
In days gone by I used to be
A potter who would feel
His fingers mould the yielding clay To patterns on his wheel;
But now, through wisdom lately won, That pride has died away,
I have ceased to be the potter
And have learned to be the clay.
In other days I used to be
A poet through whose pen Innumerable songs would come
To win the hearts of men;
But now, through new-got knowledge Which I hadn’t had so long,
I have ceased to be the poet
And have learned to be the song.
I was a fashioner of swords,
In days that now are gone, Which on a hundred battle-fields Glittered and gleamed and shone;