William Blake

To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down  
Thro’ 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 each other, and the list’ning      
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turnèd  
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 love-sick 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 were bound up for thee.

Poetical Sketches

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