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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 1 page 16


All types of jugs and bowls both big and small
were lined up on the floor and by the wall;
   loquacious vessels, some of them, while some
did listen close but hardly spoke at all.


Said one among them — “Surely not in vain
this clay was lifted from the primal plain
   and to this figure formed, merely to be smashed
and trampled back to shapeless earth again.”


A pause there was, then loudly up and spake
a bitter vessel of ungainly make:
   “They sneer because I lean awry,” he said,
“What? Did the potter’s hand so badly shake?”


“Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell
that God, right peevish, tosses down to hell
   the luckless pots he marred in making — Tush!
this God's a decent chap who’ll treat us well.”


“Well,” murmured one, “Let whoso make or buy,
my clay with long neglect has gone bone-dry:
   but fill me with the old familiar juice,
methinks I might recover by and by.”