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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Broken Pitcher
Work rating: Low

Accursed be the hour of that sad day
 The careless potter put his hand to thee,
 And dared to fashion out of common clay
 So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me.

 An idle boy, when vintage was begun,
 I passed and saw thy beauty for my sin,
 And poured unheedingly till it was done
 The red wine of my love`s first gathering in.

 And thou, ah! thou didst look at me and smile
 To see me give with such ungrudging hand,
 As taking all to thy dear heart, the while
 It only fell upon the thirsty sand.

 Sad pitcher, thou wast broken at the well,
 Ere yet the shepherd`s lip had tasted thine.
 A god had lost in thee his hydromel,
 As I have wasted my poor wealth of wine.

 Yet, wherefore wast thou made so fair a thing?
 Or why of clay, whose fabric rightly were
 Of finest gold, new--fashioned for a king,
 And framed by some divine artificer?

 I will not curse thee, thou poor shape of clay,
 That thou art other than thou seemed to be,
 Yet I will break thee, that no passer may
 Unthinking break another heart on thee.
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