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    (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

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