Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

First Collection. Fall. The Weather-beäten Tree

The woaken tree, a-beät at night
By stormy winds wi’ all their spite,
Mid toss his lim’s, an’ ply, an’ mwoan,
Wi’ unknown struggles all alwone;
An’ when the day do show his head,
A-stripp’d by winds at last a-laid,
How vew mid think that didden zee,
How night-time had a-tried thik tree.

An’ happy vo’k do seldom know
How hard our unknown storms do blow,
The while our heads do slowly bend
Below the trials God do zend,
Like shiv’rèn bennets, beäre to all
The drevèn winds o’ dark’nèn fall.
An’ zoo in tryèn hardships we
Be lik’ the weather beaten tree.

But He will never meäke our sheäre
O’ sorrow mwore than we can bear,
But meäke us zee, if ’tis His will,
That He can bring us good vrom ill;
As after winter He do bring,
In His good time, the zunny spring,
An’ leaves, an’ young vo’k vull o’ glee
A-dancèn roun’ the woaken tree.

True love’s the ivy that do twine
Unwith’rèn roun’ his mossy rine,
When winter’s zickly zun do sheen
Upon its leaves o’ glossy green,
So patiently a-holdèn vast
Till storms an’ cwold be all a-past,
An’ only livèn vor to be
A-meäted to the woaken tree.

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