Holy Thursday (Notebook)
by William Blake (1757–1827) English
Holy Thursday[1]
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich & fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery?
Fed with cold & usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so great a number poor?
'Tis 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.
'Tis eternal winter there.
But where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
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I laid me down upon a bank,
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