The title promises a "self-made man," a phrase usually spoken with pride, but the poem treats the idea almost like a craft project done with odd, borrowed materials. The speaker begins to build himself out of dirt and morning, which suggests something both earthy and fresh, like clay at sunrise. Yet the parts quickly turn less solid: a face of water, which can't hold its shape, and an old mask of his father's, which isn't really his own at all. So the "self-made" man is partly made from inheritance.
The final touch is funny and a little sad: "three or four discourses for children." He seems to have only a few speeches, perhaps lessons or things adults say to kids, to give him a voice. The mood is quiet, wry and tender. The speaker sounds modest, even unsure, as if becoming a person means piecing together what you were handed and hoping it holds.