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.