"I'll lock the vagrant winter out, and bolt my wandering in"

I'd like to call the winter in, and bolt the summer out,
but the season it grows fervent still, and leaves fall--
their sun-scorched boughs hang languid long
and I am about them, with a sweaty brow

I have the urge for going, and I play these songs
to subdue their call -- for frosty mornings, snow
and all, that accompanies the shifting tide --
the turning times, and the death that brings forth life