Poem 13: HOLY THURSDAY
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| | 'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, | |
| | The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green: | |
| | Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, | |
| | Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. | |
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| | O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! | |
| | Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. | |
| | The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, | |
| | Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. | |
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| | Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, | |
| | Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: | |
| | Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. | |
| | Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. | |
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