Sonnet XVIII

This grey, which blankets earth like fallen snow
Now covers hearts the length of winter's sting
It poisons thought, depresses pauper, king,
And takes the spirit, crushed and bent, below.
Slowing breath and keeping things that grow
Confined within itself, it stifles Spring—
It stays the heart and clips the falcon's wing;
So grey the winter, harbinger of woe.
Come quick, Apollo, hasten now the rites;
Burn fast the grey to ashes with the sun.
You tarry, Flora: carve away the blight.
Then take the clinging fortress of the night
And brick by brick, now leave the grey undone.
Let winter ne'er contest thy blinding light.