Classic Poem

Through winter's cold and summer's heat,
I earn my scanty fare,
From morn till night, along the street,
I cry my earthen ware:
Then, O let pity sway your souls!
And mock not that decripitude,
Which draws me from my solitude,
To cry my plates and bowls.

From thoughtless youth I often brook
The trick and taunt of scorn,
And though indiff'rence marks my look,
My heart with grief is torn:
Then, O let pity sway your souls!
Nor sneer contempt in passing by;
Nor mock, derisive, while I cry,
Come, buy my plates and bowls.

The potter moulds the passive clay
To all the forms you see;
And that same Power that formed you,
Hath likewise fashion'd me.
Then, O let pity sway your souls!
Though needy, poor as poor can be,
I stoop not to your charity,
But cry my plates and bowls.