London

by William Blake

　　I wander thro' each charter'd street,

　　Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,

　　And mark in every face I meet,

　　Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

　　In every cry of every Man,

　　In every Infant’s cry of fear,

　　In every voice, in every ban,

　　The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

　　How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry

　　Every black'ning Church appalls;

　　And the hapless Soldier’s sigh

　　Runs in blood down Palace walls.

　　But most, thro' midnight streets I hear

　　How the youthful Harlot’s curse

　　Blasts the new born Infant’s tear,

　　And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.