Ruth Manning-Sanders

The Soul And The Spirit Of The Race

When I went down the gallery,
A million shapes of clay
Stood in the selfsame way
Upon their pedestàls of ebony,
And each one turned his solemn face
Toward the selfsame place.

When I went into the workshop,
There did I see—
Gnarled as an old oak tree
That crouches on a mountain top—
The one who made those shapes of clay
With faces all one way.

Oh then did I, a rebel bold,
With dreams lit candlewise
Before my startled eyes.
Seize the wet clay and think to mould
Myself that shape of winged thought
Which I in vain had sought.

Lovely...