1.
Holy Thursday
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 and bare
And their ways are filled with thorns,
It is eternal winter there.
For where’er the sun does shine
And where’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Not poverty the mind appall.
William Blake
2.
What Is Our Life?
What is our life? A play of passion
Our mirth, the music of division;
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be
Where we are dressed for this short comedy
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss;
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done
Thus march we playing to our latest rest;
Only we die in earnest- that’s no jest.
Sir Walter Ralegh