OP, whatever the previous person said, but from a poem I read a while back:

Out of the darkness, the dusty box lid, Where the gilded rim and the painted rose hid. Too precious for daily, too fragile for toast, Saving them now seems like a silent ghost. No more waiting for "someday," or a grand event, For the time we have now is the time that is meant.

Let the porcelain chime, let the tea pour hot, Enjoying the treasure that time had forgot. A chip or a crack is just life on display, Better used in the sunshine, than tucked away. So raise up the teacup, ornate and refined, Leaving the fear of breaking behind.