Daily Trials By A Sensitive Man

Oh, there are times     When all this fret and tumult that we hear     Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear     His own dull chimes.     Ding dong! ding dong!     The world is in a simmer like a sea     Over a pent volcano, - woe is me     All the day long!     From crib to shroud!     Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby,     And friends in boots tramp round us as we die,     Snuffling aloud.     At morning's call     The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,     And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one,     Give answer all.     When evening dim     Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul,     Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, -     These are our hymn.     Women, with tongues     Like polar needles, ever on the jar;     Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are     Within their lungs.     Children, with drums     Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass;     Peripatetics with a blade of grass     Between their thumbs.     Vagrants, whose arts     Have caged some devil in their mad machine,     Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between,     Come out by starts.     Cockneys that kill     Thin horses of a Sunday, - men, with clams,     Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams     From hill to hill.     Soldiers, with guns,     Making a nuisance of the blessed air,     Child-crying bellmen, children in despair,     Screeching for buns.     Storms, thunders, waves!     Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill;     Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still     But in their graves.