A Poor Man

Had I been born a stone, I might have been
Free from that curse—a heart: but I bear in me
A throbbing devil, who will never sleep.
I am possessed! Care, Care,—the cruel pain
Which children bring upon the parents' soul,
Eats into mine, corrodes, and cankers it.
You laugh—‘ I do not starve ’—not yet, not yet:
But wait to-morrow! Famine will be here.
In the mean time, we 've still grim Care, (whose tooth
Is like the tiger's,—sharp,) lest dreams should fall
And shadow us with sweet forgetfulness.
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