Classic Poem

From the smoothly gliding wheel,
Potter, whistling o'er the clay!
With the joy that workers feel,
Set the molded forms away;
They are yours, so true, so fine,
Stately curve and graceful line.

Your poor fellow-craftsman I,
And grudge you not your deft success;
Yet with many a wistful sigh
View your treasures none the less;
With a comrade's envy see
What the gods deny to me.

Even the models I would use
Wavering, dim, before me rise;
Bungling hands their aid refuse;
Visions mock my unskilled eyes,
Which the form that fits my clay,
Who shall tell me, yea or nay?

Never to my hungry soul
Comes the joy that you have known;
Never stands a finished whole
Perfect through my art alone;
What my eager toil expressed, —
What is chance, — remains unguessed.

Chance? Ah, nothing comes by chance.
We, who boast us o'er the clay,
On the wheel of circumstance
Take our pattern in our day.
Clay and Potter, — you and I
Beneath one Master's finger lie.