A piece of iron was refined
By highest skill of hand and mind,
To steel that formed the keenest blade,
Or instruments of wonder made,
Or strings awaking symphonies
From far across the centuries.
Another piece lay dull and dead
As days of hope and wonder sped.
It felt no prompting of desire
For the refiner’s purging fire.
Passive it lay, nor ever wist
The thrill and gladness it had missed.
I speak no word of praise or blame.
I only say it is a shame
That metal, made for wondrous things,
Keen instruments, responsive strings,
Should be, its aspiration spent,
Arrested in development.