TO SPRING

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

      O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
       
      Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
       
      Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
       
      Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
       
       
      The hills tell one another, and the listening
       
      Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
       
      Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
       
      And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
       
       
      Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
       
      Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
       
      Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
       
      Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
       
       
      O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
       
      Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
       
      Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
       
      Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.