***

In a cradle made of steel
I've been rocked by northern winds,
And the art of staying still
I have mastered ever since;
Yet I'm stirred beneath your gaze,
O, the vessel made of clay!
Let the dust upon my face
Force me not to turn away;
Let the fragrance of the drink
In the air as I stop
On my way towards the spring
Threaten not the potter's shop.
O, the guardian of grails,
O, the pourer of the drink!
Let my walk along the brink
Be the safest of your trails!