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 listening     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.     O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour     Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put     Thy golden crown upon her languished head,     Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.