The Open Village Idiot

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The Open Village Idiot stands;
The Idiot, a simple man is he,
With small and weak brain;
And the muscles of his brainy folds 5
Are thick as iron blocks.

His hair is brittle, and black, and long,
His face is like the blank white sheet;
His brow is bold with dishonest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can, 10
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his mouth murmur;
You can hear him swing his heavy brain 15
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the Open Village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door; 20
They love to see the flaming fake,
And hear the mouth murmur,
And watch the wet spits that fly
Like drops from a water faucet.

He goes on Sunday to the church, 25
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his devil's voice,
Singing in the Open Village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice. 30

It sounds to him like his mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 35
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close; 40
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life 45
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!