Shapes of Clay

Because from Folly's lips you got

Some babbled mandate to subdue

The realm of Common Sense, and you

Made promise and considered not—

Because you strike a random blow

At what you do not understand,

And beckon with a friendly hand

To something that you do not know,

I hold no speech of your desert,

Nor answer with porrected shield

The wooden weapon that you wield,

But meet you with a cast of dirt.

Dispute with such a thing as you—

Twin show to the two-headed calf?

Why, sir, if I repress my laugh,

'T is more than half the world can do.

1882.