IF gratitude a poor man's virtue is, 'Tis one at least my sick soul can afford. Bankrupt I am of all youth's charities, But not of thanks. No. Thanks be to the Lord! Praise be, dear Lady of all grace, to you. You were my mediciner, my one sole friend, When the world spurned me from its retinue. And I am yours, your bond-slave to the end. —How shall I tell it you? There was a time When I was sordid in my unbelief, And mocked at all things less robust than crime, A convict in my prison-house of grief. But that is past. Your pity was the key Which sent me forth, a broken man, but free. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT CHANGE by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS SARRAZINE'S SONG, FR. CHAITIVEL by MARIE DE FRANCE THE TEMPERAMENTS by EZRA POUND BETROTHED ANEW by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN RUMORS FROM AN AEOLIAN HARP by HENRY DAVID THOREAU PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF HENRY THE EIGHTH by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |