  Men call him mad because he weaves The glory of the golden corn And paints the beauty of the sheaves They gather night and morn. They laugh when he in rhapsody, With eye uplift and soul serene, Translates the wonders of the sky Which they have dimly seen. Or if he pluck a wayside flower And tell them of its beauty rare, They smile, not knowing God’s great power Is manifested there. Or if when tempests rule the sky He walk and talk with wind and rain, They call his soul’s great ecstacy A sickness of the brain. He walks unrecognized of men, For sense may not discern the soul; The morrow’s wonders of his pen Their sympathies control. Along the battle-field of life, Content to lose if others gain, He lifts no finger in the strife, Yet feels its bitter pain. He wanders through the crowded street, Or lingers by the country side, For all things good his heart doth beat With love that is world-wide. The troubles of his fellow men He shrines with pity in heart, And prays the time to hasten when All sorrow shall depart. And when the kindly voice of Death Proclaims life’s journey duly trod, He blesses all with parting breath And leaves the rest to God. |
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