'Ithin the raïnless sheädes, below
The steadvast arches' mossy bow.
Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed
The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head,
An' western win's, a-blowèn cool,
Do dreve em out athirt the pool,
Or Winter's clouds do gather dark
An' wet, wi' raïn, the elem's bark,
You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt
His little sheäde-mark'd lips a-fix'd;