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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536453" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Gratitude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536453" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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