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Poem by Edith Wharton
Mould and Vase
GREEK POTTERY OF AREZZO. HERE in the jealous hollow of the mould, Faint, light-eluding, as templed in the breast Of some rose-vaulted lotus, see the best The artist had -- the vision that unrolled Its flying sequence till completion's hold Caught the wild round and bade the dancers rest -- The mortal lip on the immortal pressed One instant, ere the blindness and the cold. And there the vase: immobile, exiled, tame, The captives of fulfillment link their round, Foot-heavy on the inelastic ground, How different, yet how enviously the same! Dishonoring the kinship that they claim, As here the written word the inner sound.
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