Classic Poem

By zummer an' fall, an' by tide upon tide,
The apple-tree stem do leän lower azide,
An' the loosenen bricks out in orcha'd do vall
On the tree-begloom'd grass vrom the long-zided wall,
An' the bank-zweepen water, wi' shock upon shock,
Do wash down the tongue o' dry ground at the rock;
An' wold vo'k oonce gaÿè,
An' litty o' limb,
Wi' eyes a-wore dim,
Do now stoop on their waÿè.

There's a stwone that do leän in the churchyard, bespread
Wi' sceäles o' grey mesh up above a green bed,
Wi' the neäme ov a mother that vew, or that nwone
Now alive did behold by the light o' the zun;
Aye, a mother o' mothers, vrom wolder to young,
To the mother that worded my own little tongue,
An' vound the wall sound,
An' apple trees trim,
An' plaÿè'd by the brim
Now a-wash'd vrom the ground.

Oh! now could she come, as we all be a-twold
She walked in her time, o' the comeliest mwold,
An' show us as what we do zee in a dream,
Her looks an' her smiles by the twilighted stream,
Where stars be a-twinklen drough leaves o' the woak,
An' tell us the teäles o' vorgotten wold vo'k
That woonce did live on,
In jaÿè or in woe,
Vrom sprackness to slowness,
Vrom bloomen to wan.

What maid wer a-lov'd or what woman wer bride,
Who drooped in their grief or did straighten wi' pride,
Who praÿè'd in their worship, wi' head bezide head,
Who stood to the beäbes or did murn vor the dead,
Who zot down a-milken in long-sheäded light,
Who knelt up a-thatchen the rick's peäked height,
What mower wer strong
Or what haÿèmeäker spry,
Whose waggon roll'd by
Down the woak-sheäded drong.