CHAUCER
O gracious morning eglantine,
Making the far old English ways divine!
Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred,
Staining the world’s skies with its red,
Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine,
Sweet, thorny-seeming eglantine.
Making the far old English ways divine!
Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred,
Staining the world’s skies with its red,
Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine,
Sweet, thorny-seeming eglantine.
WHITE PAPER
Smooth white paper ’neath the pen;
Richest field that iron ploughs,
Germinating thoughts of men,
Though no heaven its rain allows;
Richest field that iron ploughs,
Germinating thoughts of men,
Though no heaven its rain allows;
Till they ripen, thousand fold,
And our spirits reap the corn,
In a day-long dream of gold;
Food for all the souls unborn.
And our spirits reap the corn,
In a day-long dream of gold;
Food for all the souls unborn.
Like the murmur of the earth,
When we listen stooping low;
Like the sap that sings in mirth,
Hastening up the trees that grow;
When we listen stooping low;
Like the sap that sings in mirth,
Hastening up the trees that grow;
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