Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May, that I have little sleep And also 't is not likely unto me,

That any living heart should sleepy be,

And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
No longer would I in my bed abide;
But straightway to a wood, that was hard by,
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,

song,

And see the budding leaves the branches

throng,

This unto their remembrance doth bring

XIII.

Till to a lawn I came, all white and green;

I in so fair a one had never been:

VII.

And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;

Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.

VIII.

In sooth, I speak from feeling; what though

now

Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;

over;

Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white, and nothing else was

seen.

XIV.

There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers,

And saw the b-ds come tripping from their bowers,

Where they had rested them all night; and they,

Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honor May with all their powers.

And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead, For who is loth the God of Love to obey Is only fit to die, I dare well say;

cheer,

Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here,
And she hath been before thee with her song;
Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.

XXVIII.

Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint lawThat all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company,

XXXVII.

That, in thy churlishness, a cause canst find
To speak of Love's true servants in this mood;
For in this world no service is so good,
To every wight that gentle is of kind.

nigh;

For, trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
Thou 'lt be as others that forsaken are;
Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I.

XXXVIII.

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, bird ill beseen!
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen.
For thou art worse than mad a thousand-fold;
For many a one hath virtues manifold,
Who had been naught, if Love had never been.

XXXIX.

For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
And he from every blemish them defendeth:
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
In loyalty and worshipful desire;
And, when it likes him, joy enough them
sendeth.

XL.

Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
For Love no reason hath but his own will;—
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
He lets them perish through that grievous ill

XLI.

With such a master would I never be,
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
And knows not when he hurts and when he
heals;

Within his court full seldom truth avails,
So diverse in his wilfulness is he.

XLII.

Then of the Nightingale did I take noteHow from her inmost heart a sigh she brought

And mind always that thou be good and true,
And I will sing one song, of many new,
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry.

LVI.

And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
And other Peers whose names are on record.
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
And judgment there be given; or, that intent
Failing, we finally shall make accord.

LVII.

And all this shall be done, without a nay,
The morrow after Saint Valentine's day,
Under a maple that is well beseen

Before the chamber-window of the Queen,

At Woodstock, on the meadow green and

gay.

LVIII.

She thanked them; and then her leave she took,

And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sat and sung, upon that tree, "For term of life Love shall have hold of me,"

So loudly, that I with that song awoke.

Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,—
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,-
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
To appear before my Lady? But a sense
Thou surely hast of her benevolence,
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
For of all good she is the best alive.

Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness
To show to her some pleasant meanings, writ
In winning words, since through her gentiless
Thee she accepts as for her service fit!
Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
For of all good she is the best alive.

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,
Though I be far from her I reverence,
To think upon my truth and steadfastness;
And to abridge my sorrow's violence
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
She of her liking proof to me would give;
For of all good she is the best alive.

L'ENVOY.

Pleasure's Aurora, day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence

Illumined! root of beauty and goodness!
Write, and allay, by your beneficence,
My sighs breathed forth in silence,-comfort
give!

Since of all good you are the best alive.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Version of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

SONG.

SEE, oh see! How every tree,

Every bower,

Every flower,

A new life gives to others' joys: While that I

Grief-stricken lie,

Nor can meet

With any sweet

But what faster mine destroys.
What are all the senses' pleasures,
When the mind has lost all measures?

Hear, oh hear!

How sweet and clear

The nightingale
And water's fall

In concert join for others' ear;
While to me,

For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,

And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures,
When the soul has lost all measures?
LORD BRISTOL.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread,
Of Spring's unclouded weather-

In this sequsstered nook, how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet.
My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest;