måndag 9 mars 2009
To an Old Teapot
Now from the dust of half-forgotten
You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.
No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
Nor Royal Doulton.
You never stood to grace the princely
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
As if in malice.
I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held together—
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.
O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
At last enfold you?
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
For sake of one who loved your homely
In days diviner.
0000 Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn