William Barnes

First Collection. Summer. Woodley

Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an’ gaÿ
Thy leänes an’ vields be now in Maÿ,
The while the broad-leav’d clotes do zwim
In brooks wi’ gil’cups at the brim;
An’ yollow cowslip-beds do grow
By thorns in blooth so white as snow;
An’ win’ do come vrom copse wi’ smells
O’ grægles wi’ their hangèn bells!

Though time do dreve me on, my mind
Do turn in love to thee behind,
The seäme’s a bulrush that’s a-shook
By wind a-blowèn up the brook:
The curlèn stream would dreve en down,
But plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun’,
An’ meäke en seem to bend wi’ love
To zunny hollows up above.

Thy tower still do overlook
The woody knaps an’ windèn brook,
An’ leäne’s wi’ here an’ there a hatch,
An’ house wi’ elem-sheäded thatch,
An’ vields where chaps do vur outdo
The Zunday sky, wi’ cwoats o’ blue;
An’ maïdens’ frocks do vur surpass
The whitest deäsies in the grass.

What peals to-day from thy wold tow’r
Do strike upon the zummer flow’r,
As all the club, wi’ dousty lags,
Do walk wi’ poles an’ flappèn flags,
An’ wind, to music, roun’ between
A zwarm o’ vo’k upon the green!
Though time do dreve me on, my mind
Do turn wi’ love to thee behind.