Mould and Vase

by Edith Wharton

　　HERE in the jealous hollow of the mould,

　　Faint, light-eluding, as templed in the breast

　　Of some rose-vaulted lotus, see the best

　　The artist had -- the vision that unrolled

　　Its flying sequence till completion's hold

　　Caught the wild round and bade the dancers rest --

　　The mortal lip on the immortal pressed

　　One instant, ere the blindness and the cold.

　　And there the vase: immobile, exiled, tame,

　　The captives of fulfillment link their round,

　　Foot-heavy on the inelastic ground,

　　How different, yet how enviously the same!

　　Dishonoring the kinship that they claim,

　　As here the written word the inner sound.