Ambition, and Other Poems/The Idiot

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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 lastMeasure him in his cradle for A coffin to contain his dust.
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