William Blake

I wonder thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames doth flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In ev’ry cry of every man,
In ev’ry 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 black’ning Church appalls;
And the helpless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight street I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new born Infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.