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O Thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle1, Which in full choir2 hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list'ning Valleys hear; all our longing3 eyes are turnèd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth4, 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; scatter5 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 bosom6; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee. 点击 ![]()
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