William Blake

To Winter

  ' Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
  The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
  Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
  Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'

  He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
  Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathed
  In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
  For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

  Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
  To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
  He withers all in silence, and in his hand
  Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

  He takes his seat upon the cliffs, - the mariner
  Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st
  With storms! - till heaven smiles, and the monster
  Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

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