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