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 TWO MYSTERIES by MARY ELIZABETH MAPES DODGE NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY by ROBERT FROST TWO FUSILIERS by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES SONNET by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 13. ENVOI, 1919 by EZRA POUND THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE by THOMAS VAUX CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD by WALT WHITMAN |