A Bit Of Pottery

The potter stood at his daily work,
One patient foot on the ground,
The other with never-slacking speed.
Turning his swift wheel round.
Silent we stood beside him there
Watching the restless knee,
Till my friend said low, in pitying voice,
“How tired his foot must be!”
The potter never paused in his work,
Shaping the wondrous thing;
’Twas only a common flower-pot,
But perfect in fashioning.
Slowly he raised his patient eyes,
With homely truth inspired:
“No, marm, it isn’t the foot that kicks—
The one that stands gets tired.”