“London I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.”

“Every harlot was a virgin once”

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.”

“Every Night and every MornSome to Misery are born.Every Morn and every NightSome are born to Sweet Delight,Some are born to Endless Night.”

“What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the priceOf all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his childrenWisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buyAnd in the wither'd field where the farmer ploughs for bread in vain It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sunAnd in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with cornIt is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflictedTo speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wandererTo listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry seasonWhen the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elementsTo hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughterhouse moan;To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blastTo hear sounds of love in the thunderstorm that destroys our enemies' house;To rejoice in the blight that covers his field and the sickness that cuts off his children While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door and our children bring fruits and flowers Then the groan and the dolour are quite forgotten and the slave grinding at the millAnd the captive in chains and the poor in the prison and the soldier in the field When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier deadIt is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.”

“I hear my silence talked of in every lane;The suppression of a cry is itself a cry of pain.”

“For every thing that lives is Holy.”