Second Collection. The Meäd in June
Ah! how the looks o’ sky an’ ground Do change wi’ months a-stealèn round, When northern winds, by starry night, Do stop in ice the river’s flight; Or brooks in winter raïns do zwell, Lik’ rollèn seas athirt the dell; Or trickle thin in zummer-tide; Among the mossy stwones half dried; But still, below the zun or moon, The feärest vield’s the meäd in June. An’ I must own, my heart do beät Wi’ pride avore my own blue geäte, Where I can bid the steätely tree Be cast, at langth, avore my knee; An’ clover red, an’ deäzies feaïr, An’ gil’cups wi’ their yollow gleäre, Be all a-match’d avore my zight By wheelèn buttervlees in flight, The while the burnèn zun at noon Do sheen upon my meäd in June. An’ there do zing the swingèn lark So gaÿ’s above the finest park, An’ day do sheäde my trees as true As any steätely avenue; An’ show’ry clouds o’ Spring do pass To shed their raïn on my young grass, An’ aïr do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an’ teäke my zong, An’ I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi’ed to other meäds in June. An’ when the bloomèn rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge’s zide, We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheädes o’ quiv’rèn leaves, In afternoon, a-liftèn high Our reäkes avore the viery sky, A-reäken up the haÿ a-dried By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O’ shorten’d nights in zultry June. An’ there the brook do softly flow Along, a-bendèn in a bow, An’ vish, wi’ zides o’ zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light; An’ alders by the water’s edge, Do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge, An’ where, below the withy’s head, The zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow’ry bank in June. Vor all the aiër that do bring My little meäd the breath o’ Spring, By day an’ night’s a-flowèn wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground ’S a-zent vor all the naïghbours round, An’ rain do vall, an’ streams do flow, Vor lands above, an’ lands below, My bit o’ meäd is God’s own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June.
William Barnes’s other poems:
