The Wind at the Door

As day did darken on the dewless grass, There, still, wi’ nwone a-come by me To stay a-while at hwome by me Within the house, all dumb by me, I zot me sad as the eventide did pass. An’ there a win’blast shook the rattlèn door, An’ seemed, as win’ did mwoan without, As if my Jeäne, alwone without, A-stannèn on the stwone without, Wer there a-come wi’ happiness oonce mwore. I went to door; an’ out vrom trees above My head, upon the blast by me, Sweet blossoms wer a-cast by me, As if my Love, a-past by me, Did fling em down—a token ov her love. “Sweet blossoms o’ the tree where I do murn,” I thought, “if you did blow vor her, Vor apples that should grow vor her, A-vallèn down below vor her, O then how happy I should zee you kern!” But no. Too soon I voun my charm a-broke. Noo comely soul in white like her— Noo soul a-steppèn light like her— An’ nwone o’ comely height like her Went by; but all my grief ageän awoke.