by William Blake
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land
Babes reduc'd 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. - -