TOKENS
Green mwold on zummer bars do show
That they’ve a-dripp’d in Winter wet;
The hoof-worn ring o’ groun’ below
The tree, do tell o’ storms or het;
The trees in rank along a ledge
Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge;
An’ where the vurrow-marks do stripe
The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe.
Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view—
To eyezight’s woone, to soulzight two.
The grass ageän the mwoldrèn door
’S a tóken sad o’ vo’k a-gone,
An’ where the house, bwoth wall an’ vloor,
’S a-lost, the well mid linger on.
What tokens, then, could Meäry gi’e
That she’d a-liv’d, an’ liv’d vor me,
But things a-done vor thought an’ view?
Good things that nwone ageän can do,
An’ every work her love ha’ wrought,
To eyezight’s woone, but two to thought.
TWEIL.
The rick ov our last zummer’s haulèn
Now vrom grey’s a-feäded dark,
An’ off the barken raïl’s a-vallèn,
Day by day, the rottèn bark.—
But short’s the time our works do stand,
So feäir’s we put em out ov hand.
Vor time a-passèn, wet an’ dry,
Do spweïl em wi’ his changèn sky,
