Second Collection. Moonlight on the Door
A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar’s head, Above the slopèn thatch did ply, The while the midnight moon did shed His light below the spangled sky. An’ there the road did reach avore The hatch, all vootless down the hill; An’ hands, a-tired by day, wer still, Wi’ moonlight on the door. A-boomèn deep, did slowly sound The bell, a-tellèn middle night; The while the quiv’rèn ivy, round The tree, did sheäke in softest light. But vootless wer the stwone avore The house where I, the maïden’s guest, At evenèn, woonce did zit at rest By moonlight on the door. Though till the dawn, where night’s a-meäde The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ, Let evenèn zink wi’ quiet sheäde, Where I do hold my little swaÿ. An’ childern dear to my heart’s core, A-sleep wi’ little heavèn breast, That pank’d by day in plaÿ, do rest Wi’ moonlight on the door. But still ’tis good, woonce now an’ then, To rove where moonlight on the land Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men, The road, the vield, the work in hand. When curtains be a-hung avore The glitt’rèn windows, snowy white, An’ vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light O’ moonlight on the door.
William Barnes’s other poems:
