<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472404" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, there are times <br> When all this fret and tumult that we hear <br> Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear <br> His own dull chimes. <br> Ding dong! ding dong! <br> The world is in a simmer like a sea <br> Over a pent volcano, -- woe is me <br> All the day long! <br> From crib to shroud! <br> Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby, <br> And friends in boots tramp round us as we die, <br> Snuffling aloud. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> At morning's call <br> The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun, <br> And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, <br> Give answer all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> When evening dim <br> Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul, <br> Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, -- <br> These are our hymn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Women, with tongues <br> Like polar needles, ever on the jar; <br> Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are <br> Within their lungs. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Children, with drums <br> Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass; <br> Peripatetics with a blade of grass <br> Between their thumbs. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Vagrants, whose arts <br> Have caged some devil in their mad machine, <br> Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between, <br> Come out by starts. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Cockneys that kill <br> Thin horses of a Sunday, -- men, with clams, <br> Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams <br> From hill to hill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Soldiers, with guns, <br> Making a nuisance of the blessed air, <br> Child-crying bellman, children in despair, <br> Screeching for buns. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Storms, thunders, waves! <br> Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill; <br> Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still <br> But in their graves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472404" data-title="Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man de Oliver Wendell Holmes" data-description="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 l..."></div> </div> </div>

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