My soul should dwine within the slade of tors
A clumse of rain from a brath storm pours,
as it drenches the soil of an Elysian Meadow.
The threatening din roils the dormant souls,
who rest there beneath this beloved ground.
The storm wanes and from beyond the knoll,
glimmers afterwards such a wondrous rainbow.
A ferly thrush therefore roosts much grithfully,
upon the lone birch of a nearby stilly mound.
Henceforth the storm is yet an augury to heed,
when it should flit again upon the lush sward.
As the perth blooms flourish then for the nonce,
they should in the storm of tomorrow fade away.
Thenceforth the storm should reach too swiftly,
the outer edge of the confines of the weald.
It should come to overflood the nearby estuary,
and a bustling warth upon the following day.
When it comes anew I should thole with frith,
and I should gander there afterwards amain.
I have swinked this land through the moil,
and I am an old man who traipses this erd.
And a drudgery that has gart me erstwhile,
to toil in the thorps and beyond their domain.
Nay should I bewail upon the sorrow of my heart,
and the wearisome footsteps of my true weird.
I wale to gang always into the vaward ahead,
when the Lord should take me onto the welkin.
I should be fain when the cherubs of heaven,
await me thereafter with the gate and doors.
Amid the wuthering winds that blow my blee,
should be enlightened by aureoles that glisten.
And in the mist he is there nigh hovering above,
as my soul should dwine within the slade of tors.
