Then turn and turn with a loving touch__
The clay will break if ground too much.
A well-shaped vase made from the clay,
Again 't is poised on the master's hand;
"Good wheel, I praise thee for thy share,
But little vase, there is more to bear.
Thrust into the flames that brightly glow__
A mighty breath on the fires doth blow,__
Dost think me a master hard and stern,
As I thrust you in to burn and burn?"
Would you know it now for the lump of clay
That lately lay on the potter's hand ?
The flames grew cool and he drew it out,
Lovingly then he turned it about.
The fire had given an added grace,
You knew by the smile on the master's face;
What if the vase had not held still
While the cruel fires did all their will?
Once but a lump of moistened clay
That the potter could toss from his hand;
Now it is touched with the royal dyes
That mock earth's bloom and mirage the skies;
You might almost think the bird would soar.
Out from the vase and up from the door;
A monarch's hall it is fit to grace,
Since it felt the wheel, and the fire's embrace.