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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Sonnet V.
Work rating: Low

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled 
  To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs
  Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
  That mocks thy shiv`ring! take my garment--use
  A young man`s arm!  I`ll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara, too, shall tend thee, like a child:
  And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side`s recess,
  Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.--
He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild,
Who met the Lazar turned from rich man`s doors,
  And called him Friend, and wept upon his sores!
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