The balance of Wintre and Spring unntil mynn ge-minde,
a remnant to them sunns’ old myrrore arch’d o’er my soul…
Blowing off al tha country-hal, socch paths te dusk or dead
forr evening seem voysces and, at whose insistance, tears
ov joye tha each percht his own run! How lyk the Spring in this.
