On one base wheel the dust of prince and churl;
⁠Plebeian potter, 'tis a king's right hand!
And this was once a violet-breathing girl.

'Tis the fair stuff of which the flowers are made,
'Tis beauty's very substance sore decayed,
⁠The brows of ivory, the breasts of myrrh,—
And lo! this fellow turns it to a trade.

Thus spake I to a potter on a day,
Bidding his careless wheel a moment stay—
⁠"Be pitiful, O potter, nor forget
Potters and pots alike are made of clay."

And as I spake I heard a whisper steal,
A sad low laughter, from the potter's wheel,—
⁠Behold! it was my father's sacred dust
For which unwittingly I made appeal.