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HE wild winds weep, And the night as a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my greifs enfold! . . . But lo! The morning peeps, Over the eastern steeps And the rustling beds 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 weak the eyes of day ; They make mad the roaring winds, And the tempests play,
Like a fiend in a cloud, With a howling woe After night I do crowd And with night i will go ; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased ; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
Ear of Night
