The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay. Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight. Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn through with the dreary shower. How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child,when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring! O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay, How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear? 6.Holy Thursday by William Blake Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced 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 bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns.The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay. Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn through with the dreary shower. How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring! O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay, - How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear? 6. Holy Thursday by William Blake Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced 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 & bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns