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.
I lived in the south of England for some time in the 1990s, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes. Blake’s poem evokes, for me, gloomy, wet, windy winters developing into mild, breezy, sunlit springs. I have some nostalgia for walking on the South Downs in spring, smelling the soil, seeing the white blossom, the bluebells, the lambs. . . . bliss.