Charlie Sharp
Look here, the Potter of Clay
is a miracle man of mud,
who all day spins and spins
until the day is done,
and down, down comes the sun.
With earthen hands, the miracle man
throws whate’er you desire.
From his porcelain thigh he cuts,
with a taut and steely wire,
and fingers that never tire.
A figured vase, a hiding place,
a bowl or cup or pot,
from his very own clay he builds
what a Potter of Man could not—
for his very own clay he has got.
A cupboard for a casket
has he earned, that Potter of Clay:
for his head, his breast, his limbs,
in saucers have gone astray,
and the Potter has wasted away.