If gratitude a poor man's virtue is, <br />'Tis one at least my sick soul can afford. <br />Bankrupt I am of all youth's charities, <br />But not of thanks. No. Thanks be to the Lord! <br />Praise be, dear Lady of all grace, to you. <br />You were my mediciner, my one sole friend, <br />When the world spurned me from its retinue. <br />And I am yours, your bond--slave to the end. <br />--How shall I tell it you? There was a time <br />When I was sordid in my unbelief, <br />And mocked at all things less robust than crime, <br />A convict in my prison--house of grief. <br />But that is past. Your pity was the key <br />Which sent me forth, a broken man, but free.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gratitude-6/
