London

I wander thro' 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-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

ryansmith532 July 6, 2026 13:12

As players survive longer, the ball gradually gains speed, making the slope game significantly more challenging. What begins as a comfortable ride soon becomes a thrilling race that demands complete concentration. The increasing difficulty creates an addictive "one more try" feeling.
Shaheen February 14, 2023 12:32

I didn't read this poem before. Nice one. Blake is one of my favourite poets.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

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