Jade

by Edith Wharton

　　His undulant dragons of the veined jade,

　　And wound their sinuous volutes round the whole

　　Pellucid green redundance of the bowl,

　　Chiseled his subtle traceries with the same

　　Keen stone he wrought them in.

　　Nor praise, nor blame,

　　Nor gifts the years relinquish or refuse,

　　But only a grief commensurate with thy soul,

　　Shall carve it in a shape for gods to use.