Holy Thursday

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 son does never shine,
   And their fields are bleak and bare,
 And their ways are filled with thorns:
   It is eternal winter there.
 
 For where'er the sun does shine,
   And where'er the rain does fall,
 Babes should never hunger there,
   Nor poverty the mind appall.

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