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?