London
I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the newborn Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. William Blake