One night when I went down <br />Thames' side, in London Town, <br />A heap of rags saw I, <br />And sat me down close by. <br />That thing could shout and bawl, <br />But showed no face at all; <br />When any steamer passed <br />And blew a loud shrill blast, <br />That heap of rags would sit <br />And make a sound like it; <br />When struck the clock's deep bell, <br />It made those peals as well. <br />When winds did moan around, <br />It mocked them with that sound; <br />When all was quiet, it <br />Fell into a strange fit; <br />Would sigh, and moan, and roar, <br />It laughed, and blessed, and swore. <br />Yet that poor thing, I know, <br />Had neither friend nor foe; <br />Its blessin or its curse <br />Made no one better or worse. <br />I left it in that place -- <br />The thing that showed no face, <br />Was it a man that had <br />Suffered till he went mad? <br />So many showers and not <br />One rainbow in the lot? <br />Too many bitter fears <br />To make a pearl from tears?<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-heap-of-rags/
