A poem by Thomas Hood

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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