Echoing Green, The
The sun does arise, / And make happy the skies;
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 sun 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.
More poems by William Blake
French Revolution, The
84 Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines / 85 From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
Four Zoas, The
1.1 "What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song? / 1.2 Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
A DIVINE IMAGE
Cruelty has a human heart, / And Jealousy a human face;