An' when in life our love do cling The clwosest round zome single thing, We then do vind that all the rest Do wheel roun' that, vor vu'st an' best; Zoo while our life do last, mid nought But what is good an' feäir be sought, In word or deed, or heart or thought, An' all the rest wheel round it.
When starbright maïdens be to zit In silken frocks, that they do wear, The room mid have, as 'tis but fit, A han'some seat vor vo'k so feäir; But we, in zun-dried vield an' wood, Ha' seats as good's a goolden chair.
Vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, A ribbèd elem-stem do lie, A-vell'd in Spring, an' stratch'd along A bed o' grægles up knee-high, A sheädy seat to rest, an' let The burnèn het o' noon goo by.
Or if you'd look, wi' wider scope, Out where the gray-tree'd plaïn do spread, The ash bezide the zunny slope, Do sheäde a cool-aïr'd deäisy bed, An' grassy seat, wi' spreadèn eaves O' rus'lèn leaves, above your head.
An' there the traïn mid come in zight, Too vur to hear a-rollèn by, A-breathèn quick, in heästy flight, His breath o' tweil, avore the sky, The while the waggon, wi' his lwoad, Do crawl the rwoad a-windèn nigh.
Or now theäse happy holiday Do let vo'k rest their weäry lim's, An' lwoaded hay's a-hangèn gray, Above the waggon-wheels' dry rims, The meäd ha' seats in weäles or pooks, By windèn brooks, wi' crumblèn brims.
Or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind To yonder long-vorseäken hall, Then teäke a stwonèn seat behind The ivy on the broken wall, An' learn how e'thly wealth an' might Mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall.
I born in town! oh no, my dawn O' life broke here beside theäse lawn; Not where pent aïr do roll along, In darkness drough the wall-bound drong, An' never bring the goo-coo's zong, Nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge, Or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge, Or sounds o' flowèn water.
The aïr that I've a-breath'd did sheäke The draps o' raïn upon the breäke, An' bear aloft the swingèn lark, An' huffle roun' the elem's bark, In boughy grove, an' woody park, An' brought us down the dewy dells, The high-wound zongs o' nightingeäles. An' sounds o' flowèn water.
An' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim, 'S a-zinkèn low, an' wearèn dim, Here I, a-most too tired to stand, Do leäve my work that's under hand In pathless wood or oben land, To rest 'ithin my thatchèn oves, Wi' ruslèn win's in leafy groves, An' sounds o' flowèn water.