Ode on the Spinning Urn

Ode on the Spinning Urn

​O soft enchanter of the spinning clay,

With hands immersed in earth's cool, yielding womb,

How dost thou charm the heavy hours away Within this hushed and shadow-haunted room?

Thy trancèd wheel hums a low, tidal moan,

While thou, lost in a swoon of feral grace,

Dost curve the slip with touches honey-sweet;

A straying ringlet falls across thy face,

As unseen fires within thy bosom beat,

To draw the mortal mud toward the unknown.

​No careless art is this, but warm design,

Where beauty’s fierce and scintillating ache

Is molded in a silhouette divine.

What pulsing symmetries thy fingers wake!

Thou art the priestess of the whirling dust,

Distilling wildness to a quiet urn;

While I, a silent watcher in the gloom,

Am seized by every breathless, swelling turn.

Thy gathered passion makes the shadows bloom,

And binds the leaping light in earthly crust.

​The wheel now slows its drowsy, circling flight;

The breathing vessel stands, a hollowed prize,

Gleaming and wet beneath the stealing light.

Thou dost awaken me, and part my dreaming eyes—

O sudden spark! The trancèd spell is broken;

Thine eyes, untamed, flash through the quiet air

To catch my watchful, cerulean gaze.

The quiet room stares back, a vow unspoken,

As both the maker and the watcher share

The immortal fever of this mortal maze.