Mad Song

The wild winds weep

and the night is a-cold;

Come hither, sleep,

and my griefs infold :

but lo ! The morning peeps

ove 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 back to the easat,

from whence comforts have increa´d;

For light doth seize my brain with frantic pain.