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To Winter

‘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 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.

Poetical Sketches

Otras obras de William Blake...



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