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.
THE BLACKBIRD.
’Twer out at Penley I’d a-past
A zummer day that went too vast,
An’ when the zettèn zun did spread
On western clouds a vi’ry red;
The elems’ leafy limbs wer still
Above the gravel-bedded rill,
An’ under en did warble sh’ill,
Avore the dusk, the blackbird.
An’ there, in sheädes o’ darksome yews,
Did vlee the maïdens on their tooes,
A-laughèn sh’ill wi’ merry feäce
