To Winter By 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, 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 driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.

About Author Annette J Dunlea Irish Writer

Irish Writer Website: Twitter: @adunlea Facebook:
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