To Winter – William Blake

O 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, sheathèd 

In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, 

For he hath rear’d his sceptre o’er the world. 

Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 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.

To  Autumn – William Blake 

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd 

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit 

Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest, 

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, 

And all the daughters of the year shall dance! 

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. 

`The narrow bud opens her beauties to 

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; 

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and 

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, 

Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing, 

And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head. 
`The spirits of the air live on the smells 

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round 

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.’ 

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat; 

Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak 

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

The Garden Of Love – William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love, 

And saw what I never had seen; 

A Chapel was built in the midst, 

Where I used to play on the green. 
And the gates of this Chapel were shut 

And ‘Thou shalt not,’ writ over the door; 

So I turned to the Garden of Love 

That so many sweet flowers bore. 
And I saw it was filled with graves, 

And tombstones where flowers should be; 

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, 

And binding with briars my joys and desires.

The Blossom – William Blake

Merry, merry sparrow! 

Under leaves so green 

A happy blossom 

Sees you, swift as arrow, 

Seek your cradle narrow, 

Near my bosom. 

Pretty, pretty robin! 

Under leaves so green 

A happy blossom 

Hears you sobbing, sobbing, 

Pretty, pretty robin, 

Near my bosom.