Holy Thursday (Songs Of Experience)

By 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.

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