Classic Poem

If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e'thly light,
An' nothen better wer the ceäse,
How comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce,
Would many reach thik happy pleäce, —
The hopeful souls that in their prime
Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time —
The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth,
An' over cheäks a-growen wold
The slowly-weästen years ha' rolled,
The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi' a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha' laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where praÿèer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes,
An' village greens, a-beät half beäre
By dancers that do meet, an' weär
Such merry looks at feäst an' feäir,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheäks an' sparklen eyes,
Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their eärly sleep;
Where comely looks shall never weär
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre.
The feäir at death be always feäir,
Still feäir to livers' thought an' love,
An' feäirer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.