A Fresher Morning

The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations.

The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up.

The bones of death, the cov’ring day, the sinews shrunk & dry’d.

Reviving shake, inspiring move. Breathing! Awakening!

Spring, like redeemed captives where their bonds & bars are burst.

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

Let him look up into the heavens & laugh in the bright air.

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

Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years,

Rise & look out, his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open,

And let his wife & children return from the oppressor’s scourge.

They look behind at every step & believe it is a dream.

Singing, “The Sun has left his blackness & has found a fresher morning & the fair moon rejoices in the clear & cloudless night;

For Empire is no more, & now the Lion & Wolf shall cease.”

Excerpt from America: A Prophecy

William Blake, 1793