CLXXXIII — Holy Thursday
’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, 5
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own:
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 9
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake.