Mad Song

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

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 increas'd;

For light doth seize my

With frantic pain.