Yutong Dong

To winter

William Blake

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 unchained. Sheathed

In ribbed steel;I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath reared his scepter 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 driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.

To Spring

William Blake

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds

Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls

Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom, and put Thy golden crown upon her languished head,

Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

To Autumn

William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof! There thou may’st rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance.

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers:

‘The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve,

Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head.

The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.’

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;

Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight – but left his golden load.

To Summer

William Blake

O thou who passest through our valleys in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat

That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer,

Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs

Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on

Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy

Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:

Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire;

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains;

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance.

We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,

Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.