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?
W.H. Davies
photo courtesy: flickr.com
A powerful poem ... made me teary. My uncle is homeless and was my grandmother's heartache until the day she passed away. She said his situation, being mentally ill, was harder on her than if he had died. So sad.
ReplyDeleteYes, very powerful.
ReplyDeleteIt's good to be reminded of those less fortunate.
ReplyDelete