William Blake (1757–1827)

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.