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.
5 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,
10 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;
15 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
20 Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.