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For I remember stopping by the way
to watch a potter thumping his wet clay;
while with its near-obliterated tongue
it pleaded, “Gently, brother, gently, pray!”
Has not this sodden tale from days of old
thru mankind’s plodding generations been told,
of suchlike clods of saturated earth
the Creator pounded into human mould?
Just as the tulip for her morning sup
of heavenly vintage from the soil looks up,
drink deep of life, you too, till Heaven’s hand
to Earth inverts you — like an empty cup.
Perplexed no more with human or divine,
tomorrow's tangle to the winds resign,
and lose your fingers in the tresses of
the cypress-slender sorceress of wine.
And if the wine you drink, the lips you press,
end in what all begins and ends in — Yes;
take note you are today what yesterday
you were. Tomorrow you shall not be less.