The Little Blind Beggar
At the gate of the world where the travel flows,
And the folk stream by full-tide,
A little blind Beggar sits in the sun
And shoots afar and awide.
He fits the arrow and twangs the bow
And low in his throat laughs he,
For well he knows he will hit his mark
Though never a face he see.
And never his stock of arrows fails,
For the pain of the wound is sweet,
And the stricken folk bring the arrows back
To pile at the Beggar’s feet.
So he fits the arrows and twangs the bow,
And laughs till his fingers shake,
For well he knows he can never miss,
But somewhere a heart must ache.
Now they who are struck, they keep still tongue,
But they carry the arrows back,
And they who are spared they sound abroad
The songs of the pain they lack.
But still or singing, and grave or gay,
Through the gate of the world they go,
And the little blind Beggar sits in the sun
And laughs as he lays them low.