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By William Blake

The wild winds weep, 

         And the night is a-cold;

Come hither, Sleep,

         And my griefs infold:

But lo! the morning peeps

         Over the eastern steeps,

And the rustling 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 croud,

         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 frantic pain.


Poet Bio

William Blake was born in London, where he spent most of his life working as an engraver and illustrator. At about age ten, Blake had his first vision: a tree filled with angels. Mysticism is one of the hallmarks of his work. While his poetry was not widely known during his lifetime, his writing and his art have continued to grow in popularity.

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