Glass

Sand, baked in a whitehot fire
With a soupçon of soda,
Consents to be liquid,
Sluggish,
Dripping like toffee
Oozing like jelly, yet blown
From a pipe in a bubble;
Finally yields up its will.
Afterwards, — chilled,
— It's brittle as ice
Candid as water.

Now it can cradle
The colour and savour of wine,
Or let in Heaven
To a smoke–filled hovel.
It can bring the waywardest star
Close as your shoulder;
Flicked with a finger,
Can ring purer than bells.
Smashed into slivers
It's perfectly able to kill.

Glass can be crushed
Easy as skulls.
Glass can be ground
Smaller than salt.
But never again
Can you turn back
Glass into sand.