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.