Is this a holy thing to see,In a rich and fruitful land,Babes reduced to misery,Feed 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 & bare,And their ways are fill'd with thorns;It is eternal winter there.For where-e'er the sun does shine,And where-e'er the rain does fall,Babe can never hunger there,Nor poverty the mind appall.
-William Blake
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