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