Spring, continued.

...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 lovesick 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 are bound up for thee.

William Blake (1783)

Spring Quiet

Gone were but the Winter,come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert where the birds sing.
Where in the whitethom singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings in the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents are the budding boughs
Arching high over a cool green house:
Full of sweet scents, and whispering air
Which sayeth softly: “We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety, here dwell alone,
With a clear stream and a mossy stone.
“Here the sun shineth most shadily;
Here is heard an echo of the far sea,
Though far off it be.”

Christina Rossetti (1847)