Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Analysis
"Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man" is a poem written by Oliver Wendell Holmes. This poem talks about all the noises there are in everyday life and how busy we are. He claims that "Over a pent volcano, -- woe is me / All the day long!" He goes on to talk about all the sounds people make from drums to talking to "children with drums" and people who speak with "Cockneys" are most annoying of all. The "Sensitive Man" in the title is very easily annoyed by regular noises.
This poem is written as eleven stanzas consisting of four lines with the rhyme scheme ABBA. The poem is written in iambic-biameter and iambic-pentameter.
Poem
Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man 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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