Classic Poem

" WE are but clay, " the preacher saith;
— " The heart is clay, and clay the brain,
And soon or late there cometh death
— To mingle us with earth again. "

Well, let the preacher have it so,
— And clay we are, and clay shall be; —
Why iterate? — for this I know,
— That clay does very well for me.

When clay has such red mouths to kiss,
— Firm hands to grasp, it is enough:
How can I take it aught amiss
— We are not made of rarer stuff?

And if one tempt you to believe
— His choice would be immortal gold,
Question him, Can you then conceive
— A warmer heart than clay can hold?

Or richer joys than clay can feel?
— And when perforce he falters nay,
Bid him renounce his wish and kneel
— In thanks for this same kindly clay.