Question

(Q.No 6 - 10) Read the following of the poem carefully.
'Before that fatal hour
That saw me captive on the potter's wheel
And cast into his crimson goblet-sleep,
I used to feel
The fragrant friendship of a little flower
Whose root was in my bosom buried deep.
The Potter has drawn out the living breath of me
And given me a form which is the death of me
My past unshapely natural state was best
With just one flower flaming through my breast.'​

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