Now from the dust of half-forgotten things,
You rise to haunt me at the year’s Spring-cleaning,
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.

No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be seen,
Nor Royal Doulton.

You never stood to grace the princely board
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is scored
As if in malice.

I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held together —
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.

O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently — shall the dustbin hold you?
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage stumps,
At last enfold you?

It ought. And yet with gentle hands I place
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden china,
For sake of one who loved your homely face
In days diviner.