"ON THE PULSE OF MORNING"

 by Maya Angelou written: Spoken at the Presidential Inauguration Ceremony, January 20, 1993.

A Rock, A River, A Tree 

Hosts to species long since departed, 

Marked the mastodon, 

The dinosaur, who left dried tokens 

Of their sojourn here 

On our planet floor, 

Any broad alarm of their hastening doom 

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, 

Come, you may stand upon my 

Back and face your distant destiny, 

But seek no haven in my shadow. 

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than 

The angels, have crouched too long in 

The bruising darkness 

Have lain too long 

Face down in ignorance. 

Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter. 

The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me, 

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world, 

A River sings a beautiful song. It says, 

Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country, 

Delicate and strangely made proud, 

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. 

Your armed struggles for profit 

Have left collars of waste upon 

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. 

Yet today I call you to my riverside, 

If you will study war no more. Come, 

Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs 

The Creator gave to me when I and the 

Tree and the rock were one. 

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your 

Brow and when you yet knew you still 

Knew nothing. 

The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to 

The singing River and the wise Rock. 

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew 

The African, the Native American, the Sioux, 

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek 

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik, 

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, 

The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. 

They hear. They all hear 

The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree 

Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River. 

Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed 

On traveller, has been paid for. 

You, who gave me my first name, you, 

Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you 

Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then 

Forced on bloody feet, 

Left me to the employment of 

Other seekers -- desperate for gain, 

Starving for gold. 

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot, 

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought, 

Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare 

Praying for a dream. 

Here, root yourselves beside me. 

I am that Tree planted by the River, 

Which will not be moved. 

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree 

I am yours -- your passages have been paid. 

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need 

For this bright morning dawning for you. 

History, despite its wrenching pain 

Cannot be unlived, but if faced 

With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon 

This day breaking for you. 

Give birth again 

To the dream.

Women, children, men, 

Take it into the palms of your hands, 

Mold it into the shape of your most 

Private need. Sculpt it into 

The image of your most public self. 

Lift up your hearts 

Each new hour holds new chances 

For a new beginning. 

Do not be wedded forever 

To fear, yoked eternally 

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward, 

Offering you space to place new steps of change. 

Here, on the pulse of this fine day 

You may have the courage 

To look up and out and upon me, the 

Rock, the River, the Tree, your country. 

No less to Midas than the mendicant. 

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day 

You may have the grace to look up and out 

And into your sister's eyes, and into 

Your brother's face, your country 

And say simply 

Very simply 

With hope -- 

Good morning.