Samuel Taylor Coleridge

(1772-1834 / Devon / England)

Sonnet V. - Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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!

Comments about Sonnet V. by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 31, 2010

[Report Error]