THE men of simple manners please; they boast not of their pedigrees, or look profound, or put on side, or get swelled up with futile pride. The wise man's every action states, "I'm just like other mortal skates; I'm here a while to toil and spin, and try to get my harvest in, and when I leave this vale of groans, like Tom and Dick, I'll make dry bones." It gives me stitches in the side to see a man swelled up with pride, assuming divers foolish airs, and who, in every act, declares, "The clay I'm made of is so fine, there wasn't any more like mine. I was formed, one fateful day, the Maker threw the mold away, and said, 'Improvements now shall cease—I have produced the masterpiece!'" When your importance seems so steep that all the rest of us look cheap, laugh at yourself a while, my friend, and let your affectation end. Sit down in silence and review the foolish things you say and do, and realize, with many a jar, how blamed ridiculous you are! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES AT LAST by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE PIAZZA OF ST. MARK AT MIDNIGHT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH BOTHWELL: PART 2 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN FROM AN OFFICE WINDOW by FRANCES M. BALLARD KING EDWARD THE THIRD by WILLIAM BLAKE MY DOVES by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |