The Idiot

The hand that rocked his cradle once

Lies buried with his father's rings;

Yet in his cradle still lives he-

He rocks it by himself, and sings.

He knows no heaviness at heart,

He cannot feel his body's old;

The cradle that his mother rocked

Is still his joy, and all his world.

All by himself he rocks and sings-

Until he makes old Death at last

Measure him in his cradle for

A coffin to contain his dust.