London
I wonder thro’ each charter’ d street,
Near where the charted Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I met,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe,
In every try of every man,
In every intense cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind – forged manacles I hear,
How the chimney sweepers cry?
Every black ‘ning church appals;
And the hopeless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlots curse?
Blasts the new born infant tear,
And blights with plague the marriage hearse
William Blake
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