A-SWAŸÈN slow, the poplar's head,

Above the slopèn thatch did ply,

The while the midnight moon did shed

His light below the spangled sky.

An’ there the road did reach avore

The hatch, all vootless down the hill; wicket-gate

An’ hands, a-tired by day, wer still,

Wi’ moonlight on the door.

A-boomèn deep, did slowly sound

The bell, a-tellèn middle night;

The while the quiv'rèn ivy, round

The tree, did sheäke in softest light.

But vootless wer the stwone avore

The house where I, the maïden's guest,

At evenèn, woonce did zit at rest once

By moonlight on the door.

Though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde

The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ,

Let evenèn zink wi’ quiet sheäde,

Where I do hold my little swaÿ .

An’ childern dear to my heart's core,

A-sleep wi’ little heavèn breast,

That pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest panted

Wi’ moonlight on the door.

But still 'tis good, woonce now an’ then,

To rove where moonlight on the land

Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men,

The road, the vield, the work in hand,

When curtains be a-hung avore

The glitt'rèn windows, snowy white,

An’ vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light shadows

O’ moonlight on the door.