Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled <br />To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs <br />Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares <br />To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. <br />My Father! throw away this tattered vest <br />That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment--use <br />A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews <br />That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. <br />My Sara, too, shall tend thee, like a child: <br />And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, <br />Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.-- <br />He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild, <br />Who met the Lazar turned from rich man's doors, <br />And called him Friend, and wept upon his sores!<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-v-11/
