Now for what was this slender and curious mold? 
  Had it no purpose?  Had it nothing to hold? 
  A world full of meaning, my friend, if ’twere told. 
  You remember those jars in the Arabian Night,
  As they stood ‘neath the stars in Al’ Baba’s eyesight: 
  Little dreamed Ali Baba what ajar could excite—­
    For how much did betide
    When a man was inside! 
  When from under each cover a man was to spring,
  Where then was the empty, insignificant thing? 
    It was so with this jar,
    ’Twasn’t hollow by far;
  Breathless at first as an exhausted receiver,
  When the air was let in, lo! man, the achiever!

  But an accident happened, a cruel surprise;
  How frail proved the man, and how very unwise! 
  As if plaster of Paris, and not Paradise,
    No more of clay consecrate,
    He broke up disconsolate,
  Pot-luck for his fortune, though the world’s potentate.

  It brings to our memory that Indian camp,
  Where men lay in ambush, every one with a lamp,
  Each light darkly hid in a vessel of clay,
  Till the sword should be drawn, and then on came the fray. 
  ’Twas so in the fortunes of this queer earthen race,
  (It happened before they were more than a brace). 
    The fact of a fall
    Did break upon all! 
  The lamp of each life being uncovered by sin,
  The pitcher was broken, and the devil pitched in!

  So much for his story to the moment he erred,
  From what dignified pot he became a pot-sherd. 
    Since that day the great world,
    Like a wheel having twirled,
  Hath replenished the earth from the primitive pair,
  And turned into being every species of ware.

  There are millions and millions on the planet to-day,
  Of all sorts, and all sizes, all ranks we may say;
  There’s a rabble of pots, with the dregs and the scum,
  And a peerage of pots, above finger and thumb.

  Look round in this pottery, look down to the ground,
  Where bottle and mug, jug and pottle abound;
  From the plebeian throng see the graded array;
  There is shelf above shelf of brittle display,
  As rank above rank the poor mortals arise,
  From menial purpose to princely disguise.

  See vessels of honor, emblazoned with cash,
  Of standing uncertain, preparing to dash. 
  See some to dishonor, in common clay-bake,
  Figure high where the fire and the flint do partake.

  There’s the bottle of earth by glittering glass,
  As by blood of the gentlest excelling its class,
    Becoming instanter
    A portly decanter!

  There’s the lowly bowl, or the basin broad,
  By double refinement a punch-bowl lord! 
  There’s the beggarly jug, ignoble and base,
  By adornment of art the Portland vase!

  But call them, title them, what you will,
  They’re bound to break, they are brittle still;
  No saving pieces, or repairing,
  No Spaulding’s glue for human erring;
  All alike they will go together,
  And lie in Potter’s field forever.