IN A V.A.D. PANTRY

Pots in piles of blue and white,
Old in service, cracked and chipped--
While the bare-armed girls tonight
Rinse and dry, with trivial-lipped
Mirth, and jests, and giggling chatter,
In this maze of curls and clatter
Is there no one sees in you
More than common white and blue?

When the potter trimmed your clay's
Sodden mass to his desire--
Washed you in the viscid glaze
That is clarified by fire--
When he sold your sort in lots,
Reckoning such as common pots--
Did he not at times foresee
Sorrow in your destiny?

Lips of fever, parched for drink
From this vessel seek relief
Ah, so often, that I think
Many a sad Last Supper's grief
Haunts it still-- that they who died,
In man's quarrel crucified,
Shed a nimbus strange and pale
Round about this humble Grail.