Sunday, September 2, 2007


AWA! The muir is mirk aneath the muin,
Fleein cluds haes drunk the hinmaist leam o even:
AWA! The gaitherin winds will cry the gloamin suin,
An the blackest midnicht wynd the serene lichts o hieven.
Bide-na! the time is by! Ilka vyce cries, 'Awa!'
Sey-na wi ae last tear thy freend's ungentie state:
Thy luver's ee, o gless an ice, daurna keep thee ava:
Office an baundlessness airts thee tae places desolate.

Awa, awa! Tae thy drear an seelent haw:
Skail bitter tears on the ingle's fruizen yirth:
Tent the dim shades as like ghaists thay rise an faw,
An complicate streenge wabs o dowf an dowie mirth.
The blads o wastit hairst-end wids will flotter roond thy heid,
The flouers o dewy Spring will leam aneath thy feet:
But thy saul or this warld maun fade in the frost that thrings the deid,
Or midnicht's smool an morntid's smue, or thou an peace, can meet.

The clud shaidaes o midnicht is aucht thair ain repast,
For the wabbit winds is seelent, or the muin is in the deep;
Some upleuk frae its turbulence, wanrestfu sea, thou hast;
Whitiver steers or taws or murns haes its appyntit sleep.
Thou in the lair will rest: - yit, till the ghaists soud flee,
That thon hoose an muir an gairden made dear tae thee or nou,
For thy myndin an forthinkin an prependin isna free
Frae the muisic o twa vyces, an the licht o ae sweet smue.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

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