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