Indian Tales

And they were stronger hands than mine

That digged the Ruby from the earth—

More cunning brains that made it worth

The large desire of a King;

And bolder hearts that through the brine

Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.

Lo, I have wrought in common clay

Rude figures of a rough–hewn race;

For Pearls strew not the market–place

In this my town of banishment,

Where with the shifting dust I play

And eat the bread of Discontent.

Yet is there life in that I make,—

Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see.

As Thou hast power over me,

So have I power over these,

Because I wrought them for Thy sake,

And breathe in them mine agonies.

Small mirth was in the making. Now

I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,

And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay

My wares ere I go forth to sell.

The long bazar will praise—but Thou—

Heart of my heart, have I done well?