IT isn’t fair to take my becks,
My lile hidden tarn,
My mossy springs, my waterfall,
An’ make all on ’em larn
Thi songs. Aa! what for mony miles
Apart if t’ girt winds call ,
“Lassie” wi’ just thi tone of voice?
An’ wheer is t’ use an’ all
Of thi bein’ south an’ my bein’ north
If every wakin’ minute
“Lassie” is sung in t’ leafin’ woods
By throstle, lark an’ linnet.
It isn’t fair to seek ther aid
When silence takes thi part
When ings an’ becks an’ far-off fells
An’ moors help thee to court.
How can I know a second’s peace
An’ how can I be quit
Of thowts o’ thee when becks an’ birds
An’ winds will not forgit
Thi way o’ singin’ “Lassie”?-
Two notes sae lang an’ deep
‘At ivery neet ther echoes sound
Reet doon Dales of Sleep.
(Dorothy Una Ratcliffe)
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Based on Topics: Sleep PoemsBased on Keywords: throstle, wheer, ings, neet, lile, ivery, tarn, reet, larn, becks, thowts