Babies there sing a song with

Is this a holy thing to see    
In a rich and fruitful land,    
Babes reduc'd 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 fill'd with thorns :    
It is eternal winter there.    
For where'er the sun does shine,    
And where'er the rain does fall,    
Babes can never hunger there,    
Nor poverty the mind appall.    
— William Blake