Bespangle

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morne / Upon her wings presents the god unshorne. / See how Aurora throwes her faire / Fresh-quilted colours through the aire; / Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see / The dew bespangling herbe and tree.

He it was who had bespangled the soils with russet leaves and reeds and who had breathed the breath of life into beings.