The humble artist raises toward the sun his fragile masterpiece, the flower of his simple heart; he raises it in his trembling hands as though to offer it to the unknown divinities who created primeval beauty. But his hands, too weak and trembling, let it escape from them suddenly, even as his tottering body lets his soul escape--and the potter's dream, fallen with him to the ground, breaks and scatters into fragments. Where is it now, the form of that vase brought to the light for an instant, and seen only by the sun and the humble artist? Surely, it must be somewhere, that pure and happy form of the divine dream, made real for an instant!