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, sheath'd
In ribb'd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
To Winter
William Blake
