A false society’s decrees despise,
He is most worthy who has labored best.
The scepter is less royal than the hoe,
The sword, beneath whose rule whole nations writhe,
And curse the wearer, while they fear the blow,
Is far less noble than the plow and scythe.
There’s more true honor on one tan-browned hand,
Rough with the honest work of busy men,
Than all the soft-skinned punies of the land,
The nice, white-kiddery of upper ten.