William Blake

Song: Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year

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:  
O bless those holy feet, like angels’ feet;  
O 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-eyed 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.

Poetical Sketches

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