HE 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.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Mad Song by William Blake
HE 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.
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