108 
The Origin of Religion. 
 
 
 
XXVIII 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 
The dew is on the rose ;  behold 
The sun illume them with his gold ! 
 
My dew is on thy rose ;  what Light 
Their love with rapture doth enfold ? 
 
They are immune from Life and Death ; 
From heat and hunger, thirst and cold. 
 
The worn ascetics1 of the mosque 
Guess not what joy the ages hold. 
 
Seek we the tavern and the stream, 
The garden and the grassy wold ! 
 
No potter fashioned thee, o man ! 
’Tis thou that didst the Potter mould. 
 
From Fear grew Hell, from Hope sprang Heaven ; 
From Love our Ecstasy untold.2 
 
Those are delusions, slow to live, 
This hath no death, the iron-souled. 
 
[Therefore the podex of Habib 
To pierce am I, thy lover, bold.]3 
 
Only from weariness of love 
Was death’s unholy camel foaled.4