Turn, turn, my wheel? Turn round and round 
Without a pause, without a sound: 
So spins the flying world away! 
This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, 
Follows the motion of my hand; 
Far some must follow, and some command, 
Though all are made of clay!


Thus sang the Potter at his task 
Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, 
While o'er his features, like a mask, 
The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade 
Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, 
And clothed him, till he seemed to be 
A figure woven in tapestry, 
So sumptuously was he arrayed 
In that magnificent attire 
Of sable tissue flaked with fire. 
Like a magician he appeared, 
A conjurer without book or beard; 
And while he plied his magic art-- 
For it was magical to me-- 
I stood in silence and apart, 
And wondered more and more to see 
That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay 
Rise up to meet the master's hand, 
And now contract and now expand, 
And even his slightest touch obey; 
While ever in a thoughtful mood 
He sang his ditty, and at times 
Whistled a tune between the rhymes, 
As a melodious interlude. 


Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change 
To something new, to something strange; 
Nothing that is can pause or stay; 
The moon will wax, the moon will wane, 
The mist and cloud will turn to rain, 
The rain to mist and cloud again, 
To-morrow be to-day.


Thus still the Potter sang, and still, 
By some unconscious act of will, 
The melody and even the words 
Were intermingled with my thought 
As bits of colored thread are caught 
And woven into nests of birds. 
And thus to regions far remote, 
Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, 
This wizard in the motley coat 
Transported me on wings of song, 
And by the northern shores of France 
Bore me with restless speed along. 
What land is this that seems to be 
A mingling of the land and sea? 
This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes? 
This water-net, that tessellates 
The landscape? this unending maze 
Of gardens, through whose latticed gates 
The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze; 
Where in long summer afternoons 
The sunshine, softened by the haze, 
Comes streaming down as through a screen; 
Where over fields and pastures green 
The painted ships float high in air, 
And over all and everywhere 
The sails of windmills sink and soar 
Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore? 

What land is this? Yon pretty town 
Is Delft, with all its wares displayed; 
The pride, the market-place, the crown 
And centre of the Potter's trade. 
See! every house and room is bright 
With glimmers of reflected light 
From plates that on the dresser shine; 
Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, 
Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, 
And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, 
And ships upon a rolling sea, 
And tankards pewter topped, and queer 
With comic mask and musketeer! 
Each hospitable chimney smiles 
A welcome from its painted tiles; 
The parlor walls, the chamber floors, 
The stairways and the corridors, 
The borders of the garden walks, 
Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, 
That never droop in winds or showers, 
And never wither on their stalks. 


Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief; 
What now is bud wilt soon be leaf, 
What now is leaf will soon decay; 
The wind blows east, the wind blows west; 
The blue eyes in the robin's nest 
Will soon have wings and beak and breast, 
And flutter and fly away.


Now southward through the air I glide, 
The song my only pursuivant, 
And see across the landscape wide 
The blue Charente, upon whose tide 
The belfries and the spires of Saintes 
Ripple and rock from side to side, 
As, when an earthquake rends its walls, 
A crumbling city reels and falls. 

Who is it in the suburbs here, 
This Potter, working with such cheer, 
In this mean house, this mean attire, 
His manly features bronzed with fire, 
Whose figulines and rustic wares 
Scarce find him bread from day to day? 
This madman, as the people say, 
Who breaks his tables and his chairs 
To feed his furnace fires, nor cares 
Who goes unfed if they are fed, 
Nor who may live if they are dead? 
This alchemist with hollow cheeks 
And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, 
By mingled earths and ores combined 
With potency of fire, to find 
Some new enamel, hard and bright, 
His dream, his passion, his delight? 

O Palissy! within thy breast 
Burned the hot fever of unrest; 
Thine was the prophets vision, thine 
The exultation, the divine 
Insanity of noble minds, 
That never falters nor abates, 
But labors and endures and waits, 
Till all that it foresees it finds, 
Or what it cannot find creates! 


Turn, turn, my wheel! This