William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
Songs of ExperienceHoly Thursday
I
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduc’d to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
And where’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.