William Blake

To Spring

 Î 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, Î Spring!

 The hills tell each other, and the list'ning
 Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
 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 perfumed garments; let us taste
 Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
 Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

 Î 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.