  Said the potter to the flower pots: “It’s a question of design— Must I hold my hands forever from the images divine?” He ran a royal pattern and he shaped a wondrous vase, From the peach-bloom drew his color, from the rose-blend drew his glaze. Came collectors of ceramics, connoisseurs who stayed to yearn; Something wonderful was hidden ’neath the cover of that urn. Some said ’twas filled with roses, others wagered it was wine, One said it might be empty as a part of the design. Nearly all of the appraisers for the outside made their bid, But the one who bought the beauty dreamed of what was ’neath the lid. He set it on his cottage hearth, the vase beside the fire, And the cover rose in answer to a very old desire, And through the peach-bloom color and the rose-blend of the glaze, He saw love’s lost illusions safe within the potter’s vase. |
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