Toward making, than repose on aught All men ignored in me,
found made;

So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death
nor be afraid!

Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
That metaphor! and feel

Enough now, the Right

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our
clay,
Thou, to whom fools propound,

And Good and Infinite

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

thine own,

With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute

From fools that crowded youth, nor let Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;

thee feel alone.

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:

Be there, for once and all,

What entered into thee,

Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the That was, is, and shall be:

Past!

Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and
give us peace at last!

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

Not on the vulgar mass

Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price;

O'er which, from level stand,

He fixed thee mid this dance

Of plastic circumstance,

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:

Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,

Machinery just meant

To give thy soul its bent,

Shun what I follow, slight what I re- Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently

ceive;

impressed.

Ten, who in ears and eyes

Match me: we all surmise,

What though the earlier grooves

They, this thing, and 1, that: whom shall Which ran the laughing loves

my soul believe?

Around thy base, no longer pause and

press?

What though, about thy rim,
Skull-things in order grim

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the

sterner stress?

The low world laid its hand,

Found straightway to its mind, could To uses of a cup,

value in a trice:

Look not thou down, but up!

The festal board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal,

But all, the world's coarse thumb

The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips aglow!

And finger failed to plumb,

So passed in making up the main account; Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what
All instincts immature,
needst thou with earth's wheel?
All purposes unsure,

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled But I need, now as then,

the man's amount:

Thee, God, who mouldest men;

And since, not even while the whirl was

Thoughts hardly to be packed

worst,

Into a narrow act,
Did I to the wheel of life
Fancies that broke through language and With shapes and colors rife,

escaped;
All I could never be,

Bound dizzily mistake my end, to

slake Thy thirst: