The Heap of Rags

One night when I went down

Thames’ side, in London Town,

A heap of rags saw I,

And sat me down close by.

That thing could shout and bawl,

But showed no face at all;

When any steamer passed

And blew a loud shrill blast,

That heap of rags would sit

And make a sound like it;

When struck the clock’s deep bell,

It made those peals as well.

When winds did moan around,

It mocked them with that sound;

When all was quiet, it

Fell into a strange fit;

Would sigh, and moan and roar,

It laughed, and blessed, and swore.

Yet that poor thing, I know,

Had neither friend nor foe;

Its blessing or its curse

Made no one better or worse.

I left it in that place—

The thing that showed no face,

Was it a man that had

Suffered till he went mad?

So many showers and nat

One rainbow in the lot;

Too many bitter fears

To make a pearl from tears.