William Barnes

Second Collection. The Lilac

Dear lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide
Thy purple blooth on ev’ry zide,
As if the hollow sky did shed
Its blue upon thy flow’ry head;
Oh! whether I mid sheäre wi’ thee
Thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree,
Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom,
’Ithin my zunless workèn-room,
My heart do leäp, but leäp wi’ sighs,
At zight o’ thee avore my eyes,
For when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ
In cloudless light, ’tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ.

’Tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ, as Maÿ woonce shed
His glowèn light above thy head—
When thy green boughs, wi’ bloomy tips,
Did sheäde my childern’s laughèn lips;
A-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre
Their rwosy cheäks an’ glossy heäir;
The while their mother’s needle sped,
Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread,
Unless her han’, wi’ lovèn ceäre,
Did smooth their little heads o’ heäir;

Or wi’ a sheäke, tie up anew
Vor zome wild voot, a slippèn shoe;
An’ I did leän bezide thy mound
Ageän the deäsy-dappled ground,
The while the weaken clock did tick
My hour o’ rest away too quick.
An’ call me off to work anew,
Wi’ slowly-ringèn strokes, woone, two.

Zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud
Bedim to-day thy flow’ry sh’oud,
But let en bloom on ev’ry spraÿ,
Drough all the days o’ zunny Maÿ.