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Oliver Wendell Holmes - Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man
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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 bellman, 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.
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