Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake

William Blake (1757–1827)

Extracts from Poetical Sketches: 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 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.