William Blake (1757–1827)

’TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,

Grey headed beadles walk’d before, with wands as white as snow,

Till unto the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames’ waters flow.

O what a multitude they seem’d, these flowers of London town!

Seated in companies, they sit with radiance all their own.

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among.

Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor;

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.