The wild winds weep,                                                  
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.                                                  

Lo! to the vault                                                       
Of pavéd 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 friend 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.