William Wordsworth.
THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL.
(DORSET DIALECT.)
Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,
When you wer' christen'd, small an' light,
Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,
A-hangen in your robe o' white.
We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,
When harvest-work wer' all a-done,
An' time brought round October zun,—
The slanten light o' Fall.
An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,
An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,
An' you wer' nessled warm enough,
'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.
The whindlen grass did quiver light,
Among the stubble, feaded white,
An' if at times the zunlight broke
Upon the groun', or on the vo'k,
'Twer' slanten light o' Fall.
An' when we brought ye droo the door
O' Knapton church, a child o' greace,
There cluster'd roun' a'most a score
O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.
An' there we all did veel so proud,
To zee an op'nen in the cloud,
An' then a stream o' light break droo,
A-sheenen brightly down on you,—
The slanten light o' Fall.
But now your time's a-come to stan'
In church a-blushen at my zide,
The while a bridegroom vrom my han'
Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.
Your christen neame we gi'd ye here,
When Fall did cool the weasten year;
An' now, agean, we brought ye droo
The doorway, wi' your surneame new,
In slanten light o' Fall.
An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,
An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,
An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare,
Vor ever, till your journey's end.
An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
But now I soon mus' leave your zide,
Vor you ha' still life's springtide zun,
But my life, Jeane, is now a-run
To slanten light o' Fall.
William Barnes.