在这撮黏土的头顶上，明媚的春光里，树木正在交头接耳地窃窃私语，讲述着当纤细的花儿和树叶开始绽放，林中一片澄澈碧绿时，它们身上所闪耀的无尽光辉。那种景象就如无数红绿宝石粉末所形成的彩云，轻轻地飘浮在大地上。
花儿们看到这样的美景，非常惊喜，它们在春风的吹拂下探头欠身，相互祝贺：“姐妹们，你们出落得多可爱啊，你们给白日增添了多少光辉啊。”
河水也为新力量的加入而感到高兴。它沉浸在水流重聚的喜悦中，不断地用美好的音调向河岸低语，倾诉着自己是如何挣脱冰雪的束缚，如何从积雪覆盖的群山奔流到这里，以及它匆忙前往担负的重任——许多水车的轮子等着它去推动，巨大的船舶等着它运送到大海里。
那撮黏土懵懵懂懂地在河床上等待着，不停地用各种远大理想来自我安慰。“我的时运定将来到，”它说，“我不可能长久地被埋没在这里。世上的光彩、荣耀，在一定的时候，肯定会降临到我的身上。”
有一天，黏土发现自己的位置被挪动了，它已经不待在原来长期等候的地方了。它被一个铲土的铁铲挖了起来，然后和别的泥土一起被装在一辆车上，沿着一条似乎非常坎坷的铺着石块的路，被送到一个遥远的地方。但是，它没有害怕，也没有气馁，只是在心里暗想：“这是必要的步骤，因为通往光荣的道路总是崎岖不平的。现在，我就要到世上去完成我那重大的使命了。”
虽然这段路途非常艰辛，但是比起后来所经受的种种痛苦和折磨来算不了什么。黏土被丢进一个槽子里面，然后经过一番掺和、捶打、搅拌和脚踩，那过程真是苦不堪言。但一想到某种美好崇高的事物一定会从这一番历练中产生，它就感到释然。黏土坚信，只要有足够的耐心去等待，总有一天它会得到丰厚的回报。
接下来，它被放到一只快速旋转着的转盘上旋转起来，那种感觉就像自己就要被甩得粉身碎骨了。在旋转之中，似乎有一种神力把它紧紧地揉捏在一起，因此，它虽然经历了头晕目眩的痛苦，但它觉着自己开始变成了一种新的形状。
然后，它被一只陌生的手放进了炉灶。周围有熊熊烈火在燃烧——那可真是痛心刺骨啊——灼热的程度比它在河边经历的所有酷暑还要厉害很多。不过，黏土始终十分坚强，经受了一切考验，挺了过来，并且对自己的伟大前途依然坚信不疑。它想：“既然他们对我下了这么大的工夫，那我肯定会有一番美好前程的。也许不是充当庙堂殿宇里的华美装饰，就是成为帝王几案上珍贵的花瓶。”
在烘焙完毕之后，黏土被从炉灶中取了出来，放置在一块木板上面，让它在晴空之下、凉风之中慢慢冷却。磨难已经过去了，回报就在眼前。
木板的旁边便有一泓潭水，水不深也不清，水面上很平静，能把潭边的事物如实地反映出来。当黏土被人从板上拿起的时候，它终于第一次看到了自己的新形状，这就是它历经千辛万苦后所得到的回报，它的全部心愿的成果——只是一只很普通的红色花盆，线条粗糙，模样丑陋。在这个时候，它才发现自己既不可能荣登帝王之家，也不可能进入艺术的殿堂，因为自己的容貌既不高雅也不华贵。于是，它开始埋怨那位无名的制造者：“你为什么要把我塑造成这个样子？”
于是，它一连几天都闷闷不乐。接着，它被装上了土，还有另外一件东西——它弄不清是什么，但灰黄粗糙，样子很难看——也被插到了土的中间，然后用东西盖上。这个新的屈辱激起了黏土更大的不满：“我的不幸可以说是到了极点，竟然被人用来装脏土和垃圾。我这一辈子算是没希望了。”
但是，不久之后，黏土又被人放进了一间温室，这里有和煦的阳光照射，还有人经常给它洒水。于是就在它一天天耐心等待的时候，有一种变化终于来到了。有种东西正在它体内萌动——莫非是希望重生？它对此仍然不能理解，也不明白这希望意味着什么。
有一天，黏土又被人从原地搬起，送进了一座宏伟的教堂。它多年的梦想这次终于实现了。它在世上真的是有所作为了。这时，空中传来阵阵音乐，周围百花飘香。但它仍然不明白这一切。于是，它就向旁边跟它一模一样的另一个黏土器皿悄声问道：“为什么我被他们放在这里，为什么所有的人都在向我们凝望？”那个器皿答说：“怎么，你还不知道吗？你现在正载负着一株状如王杖的美丽百合。它的花瓣如同皎皎白雪，它的花心如同灿烂纯金。人们的目光之所以集中到这里，是因为这株花是世界上最了不起的，而它的根就植在你的心里。”
这时黏土感到心满意足了，它暗暗地感激它的制造者，因为自己虽然只是一只普通的泥土器皿，但里面装的是一件无比珍贵的宝物。
There was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only common clay, coarse and heavy; but it had high thoughts of its own value, and wonderful dreams of the great place which it was to fill in the world when the time came for its virtues to be discovered.
Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of the glory which descended upon them when the delicate blossoms and leaves began to expand, and the forest glowed the fair, clear colors, as if the dust of thousands of rubies and emeralds were hanging, in soft clouds, above the earth.
The flowers, surprised with the joy of beauty, bent their heads to one another, as the wind caressed them, and said, “Sisters, how lovely you have become. You make the day bright.”
The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all its waters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icy fetters, its swift flight from the snow-clad mountains, and the mighty work to which it was hurrying the wheels of many mills to be turned, and great ships to be floated to the sea.
Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with lofty hopes. “My time will come,” it said. “I was not made to be hidden forever. Glory and beauty and honor are coming to me in due season.”
One day the clay felt itself taken from the place where it had waited so long. A flat blade of iron passed beneath it, and lifted it, and tossed it into a cart with other lumps of clay, and it was carried far away, as it seemed, over a rough and stony road. But it was not afraid, nor discouraged, for it said to itself: “This is necessary. The path to glory is always rugged. Now I am on my way to play a great part in the world.”
But the hard journey was nothing, compared with the tribulation and distress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixed and beaten and stirred and trampled. It seemed almost unbearable. But there was consolation in the thought that something very fine and noble was certainly coming out of all this trouble. The clay felt sure that, if it could only wait long enough, a wonderful reward was in store for it.
Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel, and whirled around until it seemed as if it must fly into a thousand pieces. A strange power pressed it and moulded it, as it revolved, and through all the dizziness and pain it felt that it was taking a new form.
Then an unknown hand put it into an oven, and fires were kindled about it fierce and penetrating hotter than all the heats of summer that had ever brooded upon the bank of the river. But through all, the clay held itself together and endured its trials, in the confidence of a great future. “Surely,” it thought, “I am intended for something very splendid, since such pains are taken with me. Perhaps I am fashioned for the ornament of a temple, or a precious vase for the table of a king.”
At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from the furnace and set down upon a board, in the cool air, under the blue sky. The tribulation was passed. The reward was at hand.
Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep, nor very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every image that felt upon it. There for the first time, as it was lifted from the board, the clay saw its new shape, the reward of all its patience and pain, the consummation of its hopes—a common flower-pot, straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not destined for a king’s house, nor for a palace of art, because it was made without glory or beauty or honor; and it murmured against the unknown maker, saying, “Why hast thou made me thus?”
Many days it passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth, and something—it knew not what—but something rough and brown and dead-looking, was thrust into the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled at this new disgrace. “This is the worst of all that has happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am a failure.”
But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the sunlight fell warm upon it, and water was sprinkled over it, and day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it—a new hope. Still it was ignorant, and knew not what the new hope meant.