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      THE 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 pavèd 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 with the 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 whence comforts have increased;
      For light doth seize my brain
      With frantic pain.

      William Blake, The Mad Song


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