(Incorporating The Price Of Experience. Text: William Blake)

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field

Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bnght air

Let the inchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing

Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary Years

Rose and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;

And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge

They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream

Singing: The sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morning

And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night

For empire is no more and now the Lion and Wolf shall cease

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lixes is holy

What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy

And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain

It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun

And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn

It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted

To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer

To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season

When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements

To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;

To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast

To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;

To rejoice in the blight that covers his field

And the sickness that cuts off his children

While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door

And our children bring fruits and flowers

Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten

And the slave grinding at the mill

And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison

And the soldier in the field

When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead

It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:

Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me