he multiplies himself,
To dearer serves, to the lov'd tender fair,
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children,--then, Oh then, he feels
The point of misery in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:
Such, such am I!
To dearer serves, to the lov'd tender fair,
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children,--then, Oh then, he feels
The point of misery in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:
Such, such am I!
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
