That meäde me veel awhile to zwim
In weäves o’ jaÿ to hear its hymn;
Vor all the zinger, angel-bright,
Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight,
An’ I wer then too low
To seek a meäte to match my steäte
’Ithin the lofty-pillar’d geäte,
Wi’ stwonèn balls upon the walls:
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.
Another time as I come by
The house, below a dark-blue sky.
The pillar’d geäte wer oben wide,
An’ who should be a-show’d inside,
But she, the comely maïd whose hymn
Woonce meäde my giddy braïn to zwim,
A-zittèn in the sheäde to zew,
A-clad in robes as white as snow.
What then? could I so low
Look out a meäte ov higher steäte
So gaÿ ’ithin a pillar’d geäte,
Wi’ high walls round the smooth-mow’d ground?
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.
Long years stole by, a-glidèn slow,
Wi’ winter cwold an’ zummer glow,
An’ she wer then a widow, clad
In grey; but comely, though so sad;
Her husband, heartless to his bride,
Spent all her store an’ wealth, an’ died,
Though she noo mwore could now rejaïce,
Yet sweet did sound her zongless vaïce.
But had she, in her woe,
The higher steäte she had o’ leäte
’Ithin the lofty pillar’d geäte,
Wi’ stwonèn balls upon the walls?
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.
