And unto me it seemed
As if my gross and useless clay were burned
In a white ecstasy of lustral fire,
That, in the fashioning of the house of love,
I might serve perfectly the builder's need.
Thus, many months, I laboured;
Till, one day, at the noontide hour of rest,
I lay; and with a sharpened reed--
As temple-scribes write down the holy lore
On tablets of wet clay--