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 blessin 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 not One rainbow in the lot? Too many bitter fears To make a pearl from tears?

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