O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down <br />Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn <br />Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, <br />Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! <br /> <br />The hills tell each other, and the listening <br />Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned <br />Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth, <br />And let thy holy feet visit our clime. <br /> <br />Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds <br />Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste <br />Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls <br />Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. <br /> <br />O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour <br />Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put <br />Thy golden crown upon her languished head, <br />Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.<br /><br />William Blake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-spring/
