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...THE PROSPECT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG by ALEXANDER POPE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 70. THE HILL-SUMMIT by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE DEATH OF ADONIS by THEOCRITUS |