the wraiths

(Song First by a Shepherd) William Blake (1757-1827)

Welcome, stranger, to this place,

where joy doth sit on every bough;

paleness flies from every face;

we reap not what we do not sow.

Innocence doth like a rose

bloom on every maiden's cheek;

honour twines around her brows

the jewel health adorns her neck.

welcome stranger to this place


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