Classic Poem

Well , I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beät the doust a good six mile
To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;
Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon',
An' gravel-walks as cleän as bron;
An' grass a'most so soft to tread
As velvet-pile o' silken thread;
An' mounds wi' maesh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs,
An' ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs,
An' dribblen water down below
The stwonen arches lofty bow.
An' there do sound the watervall
Below a cavern's maeshy wall,
Where peäle-green light do struggle down
A leafy crevice at the crown.
An' there do gush the foamy bow
O' water, white as driven snow;
An' there, a zitten all alwone,
A little maid o' marble stwone
Do leän her little cheäk azide
Upon her lily han', an' bide
Bezide the vallen stream to zee
Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.
An' then the brook, a-rollen dark
Below a leänen yew-tree's bark,
Wi' plaÿèsome ripples that do run
A-flashen to the western zun,
Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks,
Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks,
A-casten in his heästy flight,
Upon the stwones a robe o' white;
An' then ageän do goo an' vall
Below a bridge's arched wall,
Where vo'k agwain athirt do pass
Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass;
An' woone do hold an angler's wand,
Wi' steady hand, above the pond;
An' woone, a-pweinten to the stream
His little vinger-tip, do seem
A-showen to his playmeätes' eyes,
Where he do zee the vishes rise;
An' woone ageän, wi' smilen lips,
Do put a vish his han' do clips
'Ithin a basket, loosely tied
About his shoulder at his zide:
An' after that the fourth do stand
A-holden back his pretty hand
Behind his little ear, to drow
A stwone upon the stream below.
An' then the housen, that be all
Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,
A-looken south, do cluster round
A zunny ledge o' risen ground,
Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,
In lewth ageän the northern storm,
Where smoke, a-wreathen blue, do spread
Above the tuns o' dusky red,
An' window-peänes do glitter bright
Wi' burnen streams o' zummer light,
Below the vine, a-train'd to hem
Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem,
An' rangle on, wi' flutt'ren leaves,
Below the houses' thatchen eaves
An' drough a lawn a-spread avore
The windows, an' the pworched door,
A path do wind 'ithin a hatch,
A-vasten'd wi' a clicken latch,
An' there up over ruf an' tun,
Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone,
Wi' carved windows, thin an' tall,
A-reachen up the lofty wall;
An' battlements, a-stannen round
The tower, ninety veet vrom ground,
Vrom where a teäp'ren speer do spring
So high's the mornen lark do zing.
Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beät the doust a good six mile,
To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.