<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536542" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Broken Pitcher</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Accursed be the hour of that sad day<br>The careless potter put his hand to thee,<br>And dared to fashion out of common clay<br>So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An idle boy, when vintage was begun,<br>I passed and saw thy beauty for my sin,<br>And poured unheedingly till it was done<br>The red wine of my love's first gathering in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thou, ah! thou didst look at me and smile<br>To see me give with such ungrudging hand,<br>As taking all to thy dear heart, the while<br>It only fell upon the thirsty sand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sad pitcher, thou wast broken at the well,<br>Ere yet the shepherd's lip had tasted thine.<br>A god had lost in thee his hydromel,<br>As I have wasted my poor wealth of wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet, wherefore wast thou made so fair a thing?<br>Or why of clay, whose fabric rightly were<br>Of finest gold, new--fashioned for a king,<br>And framed by some divine artificer?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not curse thee, thou poor shape of clay,<br>That thou art other than thou seemed to be,<br>Yet I will break thee, that no passer may<br>Unthinking break another heart on thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536542" data-title="The Broken Pitcher de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="Accursed be the hour of that sad day The careless potter put his hand to thee, And dared to fashion out of common clay So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me. An idle boy, when vintage was begun, I passed and saw thy beauty for my sin, And pour..."></div> </div> </div>

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