That still by beech-tree sheädes do straÿ.
The light o' weäves, a-runnèn there,
Did plaÿ on leaves up over head,
An' vishes sceäly zides did gleäre,
A-dartèn on the shallow bed,
An' like the stream a-slidèn on,
My zun out-measur'd time's agone.
There by the path, in grass knee-high,
Wer buttervlees in giddy flight,
All white above the deäisies white,