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'T was on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:
Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's, they like Thames' waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town,
Seated in companies they were, 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.
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake
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