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Poem by Hartley Coleridge
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FULL well I know - my friends - ye look on me A living specter of my Father dead - Had I not bourne his name, had I not fed On him, as one leaf trembling on a tree, A woeful waste had been my minstrelsy - Yet have I sung of maidens newly wed And I have wished that hearts too sharply bled Should throb with less of pain, and heave more free By my endeavor. Still alone I sit Counting each thought as miser counts a penny, Wishing to spend my pennyworth of wit On antic wheel of fortune like a zany: You love me for my sire, to you unknown, Revere me for his sake, and love me for my own.
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