Poemsby William Blake

The Clod and the Pebble

The Little Girl Lost

Holy Thursday

 
 Is this a holy thing to see
   In a rich and fruitful land, —
 Babes reduced 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 son does never shine,
   And their fields are bleak and bare,
 And their ways are filled with thorns:
   It is eternal winter there.

 
 For where'er the sun does shine,
   And where'er the rain does fall,
 Babes should never hunger there,
   Nor poverty the mind appall.

Contents

The Clod and the Pebble

The Little Girl Lost