Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/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 paved heaven,
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,
  And with 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.

Poetical sketches reprint 42 (detail).png