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  • 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.


    by William Blake
    (1757-1827)

    Please just give me spring and summer.
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