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 turnèd
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 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.
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 turnèd
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 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.