The wild winds weep
And the night is [bad word] hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And [bad word] 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 my back to the east,
From [bad word] have increas'd;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.