Brookwell

Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's whileTo beaet the doust a good six mileTo zee the pleaece the squier plann'dAt Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand;Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon',An' gravel-walks as cleaen as bron;An' grass a'most so soft to treadAs velvet-pile o' silken thread;An' mounds wi' maesh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs,An' ivy-sheaeded zummer bow'rs,An' dribblen water down belowThe stwonen arches lofty bow.An' there do sound the watervallBelow a cavern's maeshy wall,Where peaele-green light do struggle downA leafy crevice at the crown.An' there do gush the foamy bowO' water, white as driven snow:An' there, a zitten all alwone,A little maid o' marble stwoneDo leaen her little cheaek azideUpon her lily han', an' bideBezide the vallen stream to zeeHer pitcher vill'd avore her knee.An' then the brook, a-rollen darkBelow a leaenen yew-tree's bark,Wi' playsome ripples that do runA-flashen to the western zun,Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks,Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks,A-casten in his heaesty flight,Upon the stwones a robe o' white;An' then ageaen do goo an' vallBelow a bridge's arched wall,Where vo'k agwain athirt do passVow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass;An' woone do hold an angler's wand,Wi' steady hand, above the pond;An' woone, a-pweinten to the streamHis little vinger-tip, do seemA-showen to his playmeaetes' eyes,Where he do zee the vishes rise;An' woone ageaen, wi' smilen lips,Do put a vish his han' do clips'Ithin a basket, loosely tiedAbout his shoulder at his zide:An' after that the fourth do standA-holden back his pretty handBehind his little ear, to drowA stwone upon the stream below.An' then the housen, that be allSich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,A-looken south, do cluster roundA zunny ledge o' risen ground,Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,In lewth ageaen the northern storm,Where smoke, a-wreathen blue, do spreadAbove the tuns o' dusky red,An' window-peaenes do glitter brightWi' burnen streams o' zummer light,Below the vine, a-train'd to hemTheir zides 'ithin his leafy stem,An' rangle on, wi' flutt'ren leaves,Below the houses' thatchen eaves.An' drough a lawn a-spread avoreThe windows, an' the pworched door,A path do wind 'ithin a hatch,A-vasten'd wi' a clicken latch,An' there up over ruf an' tun,Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone,Wi' carved windows, thin an' tall,A-reachen up the lofty wall;An' battlements, a-stannen roundThe tower, ninety veet vrom ground,Vrom where a teaep'ren speer do springSo high's the mornen lark do zing.Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's whileTo beaet the doust a good six mile,To zee the pleaece the squier plann'dAt Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand.