Pale Roamer thro' the Night! thou poor forlorn! <br />Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, <br />Who in the credulous hour of tenderness <br />Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and scorn! <br />The World is pityless; the Chaste one's pride, <br />Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress; <br />Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside, <br />And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness! <br />O! I am sad to think, that there should be <br />Men, born of woman, who endure to place <br />Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, <br />And force from Famine the caress of Love! <br />Man has no feeling of thy sore Disgrace: <br />Keen blows the blast upon the moulting dove!<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vi-9/
