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...LONELY BURIAL by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET A PECK OF GOLD by ROBERT FROST CACHE LA POUDRE by JAMES GALVIN AFTERGLOW by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A MID-DAY DREAMER by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |