You are a crystal vase, poor woman. You
Were blown into too delicate a form.
Bathed within a father's breath, you grew
Till swelled too hot with ideals and inner storm.
Upon a gilden pedestal you stand
Whereon your maker proudly sports his pride
And guards it fierce from rough and rowdy hand,
And from the cold winds of the world outside.
I'd have you, but I cannot pay the price,
Nor if I could, could ever I be sure
That I could prove a man of such device,
That my touch would not break your brittle core.
So who will have you when your maker dies;
Pray, what rare man can well keep such a prize?
George Chadderdon © 1993