My soul shall come to dwine within the slade of tors
A clumse of rain from the brath storm pours,
as it drenches the soil of the Elysian Meadow.
The threatening din roils the dormant souls,
who rest beneath this lovesome hallow ground.
And the storm wanes and from beyond the knoll,
glimmers afterwards a most wondrous rainbow.
And a ferly thrush therefore roosts grithfully,
upon the lone birch of the nearby stilly mound.
Henceforth the storm is yet an augury to heed,
when it shall flit anew upon the lush sward.
As the perth blooms blossom for the nonce,
with the storm of morrow they will fade away.
Afterwards the storm shall reach so swiftly,
the outer edge of the confines of the weald.
It shall come to overflood the nearby estuary,
and the bustling warth upon the following day.
And when it comes again I shall come to thole,
and to gander there afterwards nigh amain.
Yet I have swinked this land through the moil,
and I am an old man who traipses this erd.
A drudgery that has thus gared me erstwhile,
to toil in the thorps and beyond their domain.
Nay will I bewail upon the sorrow of my heart,
there within the footsteps of my dear werd.
And I wale to gang always into the vaward,
when the Lord shall take me onto the welkin.
I shall be fain when the cherubs of heaven,
await me therefore forsooth with its open doors.
Amid the Wuthering Winds that blow my blee,
shall be enlightened by aureoles that glisten.
He is there nigh within the mist and my soul,
shall come to dwine within the slade of tors.
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