William Blake (1757–1827)

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 turned

Up to thy bright pavillions: 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!