The wild winds weep, 

         And the night is a-cold; 

Come hither, Sleep, 

         And my griefs infold: 

But lo! the morning peeps 

         Over the eastern steeps, 

And the rustling birds 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 croud, 

         And with night will go; 

I turn my back to the east, 

From whence comforts have increas’d; 

For light doth seize my brain 

With frantic pain.

William Blake (1757–1827) English engraver, artist, and poet. He is now considered one of the most original of the Romantic poets, but in his lifetime he was largely neglected.

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