And the night is a-cold；

    Come hither， Sleep，

    And my griefs unfold：

    But lo！ the morning peeps

    Over the eastern steeps，

    And the rustling¹ beds of dawn

    The earth do scorn.

    Lo！ to the vault²

    Of pavèd heaven，

    With sorrow fraught³

    My notes are driven：

    They strike the ear of night，

    Make weep the eyes of day；

    They make made the roaring winds，

    And with tempests play.

    Like a fiend in a cloud，

    With howling woe⁴

    After night I do crowd，

    And with night will go；

    I turn my back to the east

    From whence comforts have increas'd

    For light doth seize my brain

    With frantic⁵ pain.