POET CLAYTO C. P. A.
Yes, many poets to the making of the perfect one;He must be made of poet clay when all is done.Break this one also; he hath fine aroma,But weakness.—I loved him. And this one: Ah!I worked on him at length.Yes, break them all. Their cries?Well! What? How otherwiseIt is not given to know the wheres and whys.Drop tears, but go on with the breaking;They must be broken small for making.Tears moisten well the mixing,And some day you will knowWhen rises a Poet out of this broken clay,And I, the Potter, to greater Godhood grow.Yes, many poets broken to the one,—No swift uprising from the common clod.It must be poet clay or best undone—Unfit that I should breathe upon.Did you not know that poet aroma is the breath of God?
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