Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
 A mark in every face I meet,
   Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

 In every cry of every man,
   In every infant’s cry of fear,
 In every voice, in every ban,
   The mind-forged manacles I hear: 

 How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
   Every blackening church appalls,
 And the hapless soldier’s sigh
   Runs in blood down palace-walls.

 But most, through midnight streets I hear
   How the youthful harlot’s curse
 Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
   And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

 The human abstract

 Pity would be no more
 If we did not make somebody poor,
 And Mercy no more could be
 If all were as happy as we.

 And mutual fear brings Peace,
 Till the selfish loves increase;
 Then Cruelty knits a snare,
 And spreads his baits with care.

 He sits down with his holy fears,
 And waters the ground with tears;
 Then Humility takes its root
 Underneath his foot.

 Soon spreads the dismal shade
 Of Mystery over his head,
 And the caterpillar and fly
 Feed on the Mystery.

 And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
 Ruddy and sweet to eat,
 And the raven his nest has made
 In its thickest shade.

 The gods of the earth and sea
 Sought through nature to find this tree,
 But their search was all in vain: 
 There grows one in the human Brain.

 Infant sorrow

 My mother groaned, my father wept: 
 Into the dangerous world I leapt,
 Helpless, naked, piping loud,
 Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

 Struggling in my father’s hands,
 Striving against my swaddling-bands,
 Bound and weary, I thought best
 To sulk upon my mother’s breast.

 A poison tree

 I was angry with my friend: 
 I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 
 I was angry with my foe: 
 I told it not, my wrath did grow.

 And I watered it in fears
 Night and morning with my tears,
 And I sunned it with smiles
 And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, and he knew that it was mine, —­

 And into my garden stole
 When the night had veiled the pole;
 In the morning, glad, I see
 My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

 A little boy lost

 “Nought loves another as itself,
   Nor venerates another so,
 Nor is it possible to thought
   A greater than itself to know.

 “And, father, how can I love you
   Or any of my brothers more? 
 I love you like the little bird
   That picks up crumbs around the door.”

 The Priest sat by and heard the child;
   In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
 He led him by his little coat,
   And all admired the priestly care.