Mad Song

The wild winds weep,

And the night is a-cold;

Come hither, Sleep,

And my griefs enfold! . . .

But lo! the morning peeps

Over the eastern steeps,

And the rustling beds of dawn

The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

Of pavèd heaven,

With sorrow fraught,

My notes are driven:

They strike the ear of Night,

Make weak the eyes of Day;

They make mad the roaring winds,

And with the tempests play,

Like a fiend in a cloud,

With howling woe

After night I do crowd

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the east

From whence comforts have increased;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

William Blake