Holy Thursday

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’er the sun does shine,

　　And where’er the rain does fall:

　　Babe can never hunger there,

　　Nor poverty the mind appall.