William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
Poetical SketchesSong: Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year
F
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.
I meet my maiden risen like the morn:
O bless those holy feet, like angels’ feet;
O bless those limbs, beaming with heav’nly light.
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 we walk, nothing impure comes near;
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
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.