English

Deep in the mountains,
I gaze up
at the moon
shining in the clear—
leaves on the trees
abandoned
to the enticing

Wait a moment
there
on the rim
of the mountain,
you moon at midnight!
If you come out now,
I will be
bereft
of explanations.

How does he
know
that spring
has come to the world?
From
within
the cage
where he wakes
from sleep
at daybreak—
the sound
of a warbler's call.

The one
who promised
now has gone off
who knows where,
a bird flying off
at morning,
into the sky,
leaving me
in evening's wake.

'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke
O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,
When woone twold tother o' the two
“I be never the better vor zeèn o' you.”
If soul to soul, as Christians should,
Would always try to do zome good,
“How vew,” he cried, “would zee our feäce
A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce,
An' tell us, or could tell us true,
I be never the better vor zeèn o' you.”

A man mus' be in evil ceäse
To live 'ithin a land o' greäce,
Wi' nothèn that a soul can read
O' goodness in his word or deed;

Well , you mid keep the town an' street,
Wi' grassless stwones to beät your veet,
An' zunless windows where your brows
Be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs;
An' let me end, as I begun,
My days in oben aïr an' zun,
Where zummer win's a-blowèn sweet,
Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet;
Or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low
Wi' rip'nèn apples in a row,
An' we a-risèn rathe do meet
The bright'nèn dawn wi' dewy veet,
An' leäve, at night, the vootless groves,
To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves
An' here our children still do bruise

Ah ! Meäster Collins overtook
Our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still,
Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill,
To zee how strong the corn did look
An' he staÿ'd back awhile an' spoke
A vew kind words to all the vo'k,
Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile
Begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile.

The zull, wi' iron zide awry,
Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield;
The heavy roller had a-wheel'd
It smooth vor showers vrom the sky;
The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill,
An' clacker, had a-left the hill,
All bright but still, vor time alwone

As I wer out in meäd last week,
A-thatchèn o' my little rick,
There green young ee-grass, ankle-high,
Did sheen below the cloudless sky;
An' over hedge in tother groun',
Among the bennets dry an' brown,
My dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed
Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed;
An' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs,
My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows
Did rub their zides upon the raïls,
Or switch em wi' their heäiry tails.

An' as the mornèn zun rose high
Above my mossy roof clwose by,
The blue smoke curreled up between

Relaxing by the south window I spread silk;
the sun ablaze seems to burn up the blinds.
This bright autumn day I love and I hate:
the ink dries easily, the brush gets sticky easily.

The beam of morning trembling
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
With timid ray resembling
Affection's early look.
Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended,
And o'er the valley's stream
Diffused a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands—warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's altered eye.
Thus love declines—cold eve of love!