William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
Poetical SketchesMad Song
T
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs unfold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling beds of dawn
The earth do scorn.
Of pavèd 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.
With howling woe
After night I do crowd,
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.