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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESTIC SONG by DAVID IGNATOW THE TRUTH by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES TO THE REPUBLIC by JAMES GALVIN TO MY MERE ENGLISH CENSURER by BEN JONSON ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE by JOHN KEATS THE NIGHT [NICHT] IS NEAR [NIGH] GONE by ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE |