WHAN that the misty vapor was agone,
And cleare and faire was the morning,
The dewe also like silver in shining
Upon the leaves, as any baume swete,
Till firy Titan with his persant hete
Had dried up the lusty licour new
Upon the herbes in the grene mede,
And that the floures of many divers hew,
Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede,
And for to splay out her leves in brede
Againe the Sunne, gold burned in his sphere,
That doune to hem cast his beames clere.
And by a river forth I gan costay,
Of water clere as birell or cristall,
Till at the last, I found a little way
Toward a parke, enclosed with a wall
In compace rounde, and by a gate small
Who so that would might freely gone
Into this parke, walled with grene stone.
And in I went to heare the birdes song,
Which on the braunches, both in plaine and vale,
So loud sang that all the wood rong,
Like as it should shiver in peeces smale,
And, as methought, that the nightingale
With so great might her voice gan out wrest,
Right as her herte for love would brest.
The soile was plaine, smoth, and wonder soft,
All oversprad with tapettes that Nature
Had made her selfe: covered eke aloft
With bowes greene the floures for to cure,
That in hir beauty they may long endure
From all assaut of Phebus fervent fere,
Which in his sphere so hote shone and clere.
The aire attempre, and the smothe wind
Of Zepherus, among the blossoms white,
So holesome was, and so nourishing by kind,
That smale buddes and round blossoms lite
In manner gan of hir brethe delite,
To yeve us hope there fruite shall take
Ayenst autumne rely for to shake.
I saw the Daphene closed under rinde,
Greene laurer, and the holesome pine,
The mirre also that weepeth ever of kinde,
The cedres hie, upright as a line,
The filbert eke, that lowe doth encline
Her bowes grene to the earth adoun,
Unto her knight called Demophoun.
There sawe I eke the fresh hauthorne,
In white motley, that so swete doth smell,
Ashe, firre, and oke, with many a young acorn,
And many a tree mo than I can tell,
And me beforne I saw a little well,
That had his course, as I gan beholde,
Under an hill, with quicke stremes colde.
The gravel gold, the water pure as glasse,
The bankes round the well environyng,
And soft as velvet the yonge grasse
That thereupon lustely came springyng,
The sute of trees about compassyng,
Hir shadow cast, closing the well round,
And all the herbes growing on the ground.
WHAN that Phebus his chair of gold so hie
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Boole was entered certainly,
When shoures sweet of raine descended soft,
Causing the ground fele times and oft,
Up for to give many an wholsome aire,
And every plaine was clothed faire
With new greene, and maketh small floures
To springen here and there in field and in mede,
So very good and wholsome be the shoures,
That it renueth that was old and dede,
In winter time; and out of every sede
Springeth the hearbe, so that every wight
Of this season wexeth glad and light.
"They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the watercourses."
LESSONS Sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art? Be your title what it may,
Sweet the lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.
Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men:
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die,-
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
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