Page:Poetical sketches reprint (1868).djvu/41

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HE wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs 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 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;