All day long with a vacant stare,
Alone in the chilling Autumn air,
With naked feet he wanders slow
Over the city, — the idiot Joe!

I often marvel why he was born,
A child of humanity thus forlorn,
Unloved, unnoticed by all below;
A cheerless thing is the life of Joe!

Beauty can throw no spell o'er him;
His inner vision is weak and dim;
And Nature in all her varied show
Weareth no charm for the eyes of Joe.

Earth may wake at the kiss of Spring,
Flowers may blossom and birds may sing;
With joy the crystal streams may flow;
They never make glad the heart of Joe.

His vague and wandering thoughts enfold
No dreams of glory, no schemes for gold
He knows not the blight of hopes, yet, oh,
A blighted thing is the life of Joe!

Who would not suffer the ills of life,
Its numberless wrongs, its sin and strife,
And willingly bear its weight of woe,
Rather than be the idiot Joe?

I think of him in the silent night,
When every star seems a beacon light,
To guide us, wanderers here below.
To the better land, — the home of Joe.

For He who hears when the ravens call,
And watches even the sparrow's fall, —
He, in his measureless love, I know,
Will kindly care for the soul of Joe.