Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Pity

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled        &nbspTo see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs        &nbspHoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest        &nbspThat mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use        &nbspA 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:        &nbspAnd thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,        &nbspOf purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness— He did not so, the Galilaean mild,        &nbspWho met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors        &nbspAnd call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!