Calcutta nr. 488
I made my way into the abode of the potters
Every moment he shewed ruins of earth
I saw—any one who saw not is sightless
My ancestor’s dust on the hands of every potter.
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
I made my way into the (abode of the) potters of the age,
Every moment shewed some new skill with clay;
I saw, though men devoid of vision saw it not,
My ancestors' dust on the hands of every potter.
By the potter's shop yonder I passed t' other day;
At his clay he was hewing and pounding away:
I see (if the dullard perceive it not) aye
In the hand of each potter my forefather's clay.
About a potter's shop I chanced to stray,
At every breath with axe he beat away
At earth; if dullards see not, I perceive
In every potter's hand my fathers' clay.