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.

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