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Poem by Thomas Hood
Sonnet A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind — For pity, my own tears have made me blind That I might never see my children's frown; And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind, So that unkindly speech may sound for kind — Albeit I know not. — I am childish grown — And have not gold to purchase wit withal — I that have once maintain’d most royal state — A very bankrupt now that may not call My child, my child — all beggar’d save in tears, Wherewith I daily weep an old man’s fate, Foolish — and blind — and overcome with years!
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