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Holy Thursday (Experience)

William Blake

Is this a holy thing to see.
In a rich and fruitful land.
Babes reduced to misery.
Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there.

For where-e'er the sun does shine.
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.

Added: 14 Oct 2001 | Last Read: 21 Jan 2018 11:06 PM | Viewed: 11598 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1818/ | Viewed on 21 January 2018.
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