Third Collection. Fall Time
The gather’d clouds, a-hangèn low, Do meäke the woody ridge look dim; An’ raïn-vill’d streams do brisker flow, Arisèn higher to their brim. In the tree, vrom lim’ to lim’, Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun’. The rick’s a-tipp’d an’ weather-brown’d, An’ thatch’d wi’ zedge a-dried an’ dead; An’ orcha’d apples, red half round, Have all a-happer’d down, a-shed Underneath the trees’ wide head. Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim’ the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall. The crumpled leaves be now a-shed In mornèn winds a-blowèn keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead, Now they be dead the moss is green. Low the evenèn zun do sheen By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their taïls Over the merry milkers’ païls.
William Barnes’s other poems:
