Later Sonnets: Gratitude

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