William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
Poetical SketchesTo Winter
‘O W
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.’
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.
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.
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.