I wandered through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, And 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 appals, 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.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed; Lay that on your heart, My young angry dear; This truth, this hard and precious stone, Lay it on your hot cheek, Let it hide your tear. Hold it like a crystal When you are alone And gaze in the depths of the icy stone. Long, look long and you will be blessed: No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed.
When people aren't asking questions They're making suggestions And when they're not doing one of those They're either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes And then as if that weren't enough to annoy you They employ you. Anybody at leisure Incurs everybody's displeasure. It seems to be very irking To people at work to see other people not working, So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine, Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison, And they lecture you till they're out of breath or something And then if you don't succumb they starve you to death or something. All of which results in a nasty quirk: That if you don't want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won't have to work.
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
The grey clover 