The Gourd
In the heavy earth the minerToiled and laboured day by day,Wrenching from the miser mountainBrilliant treasure where it lay.And the artist worn and wearyWrought with labour manifoldThat the king might drink his nectarFrom a goblet made of gold.
On the prince’s groaning tableMid the silver gleaming brightMirroring the happy facesGiving back the flaming light,Shine the cups of priceless crystalChased with many a lovely line,Glowing now with warmer colour,Crimsoned by the ruby wine.
In a valley sweet with sunlight,Fertile with the dew and rain,Without miner’s daily labour,Without artist’s nightly pain,There there grows the cup I drink from,Summer’s sweetness in it stored,And my lips pronounce a blessingAs they touch an old brown gourd.
Why, the miracle at CanaIn the land of Galilee,Tho’ it puzzles all the scholars,Is no longer strange to me.For the poorest and the humblestCould a priceless wine afford,If they ‘d only dip up waterWith a sunlight-seasoned gourd.
So a health to my old comrade,And a song of praise to singWhen he rests inviting kissesIn his place beside the spring.Give the king his golden goblets,Give the prince his crystal hoard;But for me the sparkling waterFrom a brown and brimming gourd!