by William Blake
   Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year
   Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car;
   Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,
   And rising glories beam around my head.
   My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn,
   I meet my maiden, risen like the morn:
   Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;
   Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light!
   Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky,
   In times of innocence, and holy joy;
   The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song,
   To hear the music of an angel's tongue.
   So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear
   So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;
   Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
   Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
   But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid,
   Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade:
   Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
   Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
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