An' stop they scraightin' childt, Do shut thy face! - From The Collier's Wife , a dialect poem by D. H. Lawrence
The sun glared ungenially at that blot upon the waters, breeding infectious disease; the waves flung the hated burden from one to the other, disdainful of her freight of sin; the winds had no commission for fair sailing, but whistled through the rigging crossways, howling in the ears of many in that ship, as if they carried ghosts along with them[…]
Verrelie that which I have heard and redd in the woorde of God
Then there are the golden hues of twilight shadowed in the lake, and the light veil of mist drawing across the foliage of the valley as the evening shuts in upon it.
