To Winter

    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 groaning¹ rocks：

    He withers² all in silence， and in his hand

    Unclothes the earth， and freezes up frail³ life.

    He takes his seat upon the cliffs，——the mariner⁴

    Cries in vain. Poor little wretch⁵， that deal'st

    With storms！——till heaven smiles， and the monster

    Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.