Poem 23: HOLY THURSDAY (II)
|
| | 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, | |
| | Babe can never hunger there, | |
| | Nor poverty the mind appal. | |
|
|
|