Turn, Turn, My Wheel

Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round

Without a pause, without a sound:

   So spins the flying world away!

This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,

  Follows the motion of my hand;

For some must follow, and some command,

   Though all are made of clay!

Thus sang the Potter at his task

Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree,

While o’er his features, like a mask,

The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade

Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, 

And clothed him, till he seemed to be

A figure woven in tapestry,

So sumptuously was he arrayed

In that magnificent attire

Of sable tissue flaked with fire.

Like a magician he appeared,

A conjurer without book beard;

And while he plied his magic art — 

For it was magical to me — 

I stood in silence and apart,

And wondered more and more to see

That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay

Rise up to meet the master’s hand,

And now contract and now expand,

And even his slightest touch obey.