Here's a poem about a piece of pottery:

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,        
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,        
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express        
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:        
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape              
Of deities or mortals, or of both,        
    In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?        
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?        
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?        
    What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?              
2.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard        
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;        
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,        
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:        
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave              
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;        
    Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,        
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;        
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,        
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!              
3.

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed        
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;        
And, happy melodist, unwearied,        
For ever piping songs for ever new;        
More happy love! more happy, happy love!              
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,        
    For ever panting, and for ever young;        
All breathing human passion far above,        
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,        
    A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.              
4.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?        
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,        
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,        
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?        
What little town by river or sea shore,              
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,        
    Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?        
And, little town, thy streets for evermore        
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell        
    Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.        
5.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede        
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,        
With forest branches and the trodden weed;        
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought        
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!              
When old age shall this generation waste,        
    Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe        
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,        
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is all        
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

And here's one about a potter:

THE SHALE and water thrown together so-so first of all,        
Then a potter's hand on the wheel and his fingers shaping the jug; out             of the mud a mouth and a handle;        
Slimpsy, loose and ready to fall at a touch, fire plays on it, slow fire coaxing all the water out of the shale mix.        
Dipped in glaze more fire plays on it till a molasses lava runs in waves, rises and retreats, a varnish of volcanoes.        
Take it now; out of mud now here is a mouth and handle; out of this now mothers will pour milk and maple syrup and cider, vinegar, apple juice, and sorghum.              
There is nothing proud about this; only one out of many; the potter's wheel slings them out and the fires harden them hours and hours thousands and thousands.        
"Be good to me, put me down easy on the floors of the new concrete houses; I was poured out like a concrete house and baked in fire too."                

The last is Sandburg, the first in Keats.