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