Our parts upon the stuff we needs must spoil,
Striving at mastery, there bend above
"The spoiled clay potsherds, many a year of toil
Attests the potter tried his hand upon,
Till sudden he arose, wiped free from soil
"His hand, cried 'So much for attempt—anon
Performance! Taught to mould the living vase,
What matter the cracked pitchers dead and gone?'
"Could I impart and could thy mind embrace
The secret, Tsaddik!" "Secret none to me!"