Mad Song
Edgar Froese, William Blake
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 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
