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William Blake (1757–1827).  The Poetical Works.  1908.
 
Poetical Sketches
Mad Song
 
THE WILD winds weep,
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs unfold:
But lo! the morning peeps        5
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling beds of dawn
The earth do scorn.
 
Lo! to the vault
Of pavèd heaven,        10
With sorrow fraught
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,        15
And with tempests play.
 
Like a fiend in a cloud, 1
With howling woe
After night I do crowd,
And with night will go;        20
I turn my back to the east
From whence comforts have increas’d;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.
 
Note 1. Cp. ‘Infant Sorrow’ in the Songs of Experience:
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
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