Poetry Archives

Now the light o’ the west is a-turn’d to gloom,
  An’ the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An’ the bells be a-zendén all down the Coombe
  From tower, their mwoansome sound.
        An’ the wind is still,
     An’ the house-dogs do bark,
An’ the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an’ dark,
  An’ the water do roar at mill.

An’ the flickerén light drough the window-peäne
  Vrom the candle’s dull fleäme do shoot,
An’ young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,
  A-plaÿén his shrill-vaiced flute.
        An’ the miller’s man,
     Do zit down at his ease
On the seat that is under the cluster o’ trees,
  Wi’ his pipe an’ his cider can.