1 February 2008 | Vol. 7, No. 4

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, 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.