Poem 37: LONDON
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| | I wander through each chartered street, | |
| | Near where the chartered Thames does flow, | |
| | A mark in every face I meet, | |
| | Marks of weakness, marks of woe. | |
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| | In every cry of every man, | |
| | In every infant's cry of fear, | |
| | In every voice, in every ban, | |
| | The mind-forged manacles I hear: | |
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| | How the chimney-sweeper's cry | |
| | Every blackening church appals, | |
| | And the hapless soldier's sigh | |
| | Runs in blood down palace-walls. | |
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| | But most, through midnight streets I hear | |
| | How the youthful harlot's curse | |
| | Blasts the new-born infant's tear, | |
| | And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. | |
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