Afternoon tea

To an Old Teapot



Now from the dust of half-forgotten
000 things,
You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
000 cleaning,
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.

0
No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
000 seen,
Nor Royal Doulton.

0
You never stood to grace the princely
000 board
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
000 scored
As if in malice.

0
I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held together—
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.

0
O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold
000 you?
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
000 stumps,
At last enfold you?

0
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
000 place
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
000 china,
For sake of one who loved your homely
000 face
In days diviner.

0000 Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn