Spring
Lenten ys come with love to toun{.e},
With blosmen and with bridd{.e}s roun{.e},
That al this bliss{.e} bryngeth;
Dayes-ey{.e}s in this dal{.e}s;
Not{.e}s suete of nyht{.e}gal{.e}s;
Uch foul song singeth.
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huer{.e} wynter woo,
When woderov{.e} springeth.
This foul{.e}s singeth ferly fel{.e},
And wlyteth on huere wynter wel{.e},
That al the wod{.e} ryngeth.
The ros{.e} rayleth hir{.e} rode;
The lev{.e}s on the lyht{.e} wod{.e}
Waxen al with will{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} bleo;
The lili{.e} is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fill{.e}.
Wow{.e}s this wild{.e} drak{.e}s;
Mil{.e}s murgeth huer{.e} mak{.e}s;
Ase strem that striketh still{.e},
Mody meneth, so doth mo;
Ichot ycham on of tho,
For love that lik{.e}s ill{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} lyht,
So doth the semly sonn{.e} bryht,
When bridd{.e}s singeth brem{.e}.
Deaw{.e}s donketh the doun{.e}s;
Deor{.e}s with huere dern{.e} roun{.e}s,
Dom{.e}s fort{.e} dem{.e};
Worm{.e}s woweth under cloud{.e};
Wymmen waxeth wounder proud{.e},
So wel hit wol hem sem{.e}.
Yef me shal wont{.e} wille of on,
This wunn{.e} weole y wole forgon,
Ant wyht in wode be flem{.e}.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Related quotes
Spring-tide
LENTEN ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Vch foul song singeth;
The threstlecoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
This foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele,
That al the wode ryngeth.
The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl ant the fille;
Wowes this wilde drakes,
Miles murgeth huere makes;
Ase strem that striketh stille,
Mody meneth; so doth mo
(Ichot ycham on of tho)
For loue that likes ille.
The mone mandeth hire lyht,
So doth the semly sonne bryht.
When briddes singeth breme;
Deowes donketh the dounes,
Deores with huere derne rounes
Domes forte deme;
Wormes woweth under cloude,
Wymmen waxeth wounder proude,
So wel hit wol hem seme,
Yef me shal wonte wille of on,
This wunne weole y wole forgon
Ant wyht in wode be fleme.
Spring-tide
Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Uch foul song singeth;
The threstelcoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
Thise foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere wunne wele,
That all the wode ryngeth.
The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fille;
Wowes thise wilde drakes,
Miles murgeth huere makes
Ase strem that striketh stille.
Mody meneth; so doth mo
(Ichot ych am on of tho)
For loue that likes ille.
The mone mandeth hire lygt,
So doth the semly sonne bryht,
When briddes singeth breme;
Deawes donketh the dounes,
Deores with huere derne rounes
Domes for to deme;
Wormes woweth under cloude,
Wymmen waxeth wounder proude,
So wel hit wol hem seme,
Yef me shal wonte wille of on,
This wunne weole y wole forgon
Ant wyht in wode be fleme.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Alison
Bytuene Mershe and Averil
When spray biginneth to springe,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Ich am in hire baundoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal and wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
And feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won,
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.
In world nis non so wyter mon
That al hire bounte telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,
And feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
Ich am for wowyng al for-wake,
Wery so water in wore;
lest eny reve me my make
Ichabbe y-yerned yore.
betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Blow, Northern Wind
ICHOT a burde in boure bryht,
That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht;
Feir ant fre to fonde;
In al this wurhliche won
A burde of blod ant of bon
Never yete y nuste non
Lussomore in londe.
Blou northerne wynd!
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
With lokkes lefliche ant longe,
With frount ant face feir to fonge,
With murthes monie mote heo monge,
That brid so breme in boure.
With lossom eye grete ant gode,
With browen blysfol under hode,
He that reste him on the Rode,
That leflych lyf honoure.
Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Hire lure lumes liht,
Ase a launterne a nyht,
Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht.
So feyr heo is ant fyn.
A suetly swyre heo hath to holde,
With armes shuldre ase mon wolde,
Ant fingres feyre forte folde,
God wolde hue were myn!
Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Heo is coral of godnesse,
Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse,
Heo is cristal of clannesse,
Ant baner of bealte.
Heo is lilie of largesse,
Heo is parvenke of prouesse,
Heo is solsecle of suetnesse,
Ant lady of lealte.
For hire love y carke ant care,
For hire love y droupne ant dare,
For hire love my blisse is bare
Ant al ich waxe won,
For hire love in slep y slake,
For hire love al nyht ich wake,
For hire love mournynge y make
More then eny mon.
Blou northerne wynd!
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
Blow, Northern Wind
Blow, northerne wynd,
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blow, northerne wynd,
Blou, blou, blou!
Ichot a burde in bour{.e} bryht,
That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht,
Feir ant fre to fond{.e};
In al this wurhlich{.e} won,
A burde of blod and of bon
Never yete y nust{.e} non
Lussomore in lond{.e}.
With lokk{.e}s lefliche and long{.e},
With frount and fac{.e} feir to fong{.e},
With murth{.e}s moni{.e} mote heo mong{.e},
That brid so breme in bour{.e};
With lossom ey{.e}, grete ant god{.e},
With browen blysfol under hod{.e};
He that reste him on the rod{.e}
That leflich lyf honour{.e}!
Hire lur{.e} lum{.e}s liht
Ase a launterne a nyht,
Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht:
So feyr heo is ant fyn!
A suetly suyre heo hath to hold{.e},
With arm{.e}s, shuldr{.e}, ase mon wold{.e},
Ant fyngres feyr{.e} fort{.e} fold{.e},
God wolde hue wer{.e} myn!
Middel heo hath menskful smal;
Hire loveliche cher{.e} as cristal;
They{.e}s, legg{.e}s, fet, ant al,
Ywraht is of the best{.e}.
A lussum ledy last{.e}les
That sweting is, and ever wes;
A betere burd{.e} never nes
Yhery{.e}d with the hest{.e}.
Heo is der{.e}worthe in day,
Gracious{.e}, stout, and gay,
Gentil, jolyf so the jay,
Worhlich{.e} when heo waketh.
Maiden murgest of mouth;
Bi est, bi west, by north and south,
Thér nis fithel{.e} ne crouth
That such murth{.e}s maketh.
Heo is coral of godness{.e},
Heo is rubie of ryhtfulness{.e},
Heo is cristal of clanness{.e},
Ant baner of bealté;
Heo is lilie of largess{.e},
Heo is paruenke of prouess{.e},
Heo is solsecle of suetness{.e},
Ant ledy of lealté.
...
For hir{.e} love y carke ant car{.e},
For hir{.e} love y droupne ant dar{.e},
For hir{.e} love my blisse is bar{.e},
Ant al ich wax{.e} won;
For hir{.e} love in slep y slak{.e},
For hir{.e} love al nyht ich wak{.e},
For hir{.e} love mournynge y mak{.e}
Mor{.e} then eny mon.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Alison
BYTUENE Mershe ant Averil
When spray biginneth to spring,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Icham in hire bandoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
Ant lyht on Alisoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal ant wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
Ant feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap, etc.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.
In world his non so wyter mon
That al hire bounte telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,
Ant feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap, etc.
Icham for wowyng al for-wake,
Wery so water in wore;
Lest eny reve me my make
Ichabbe y-yerned yore.
Betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun--
An hendy hap, etc.
Alysoun
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent;
Ichot, from hevene it is me sent;
From alle wymmen mi loue is lent,
And lyght on Alysoun.
Bytuen{.e} Mersh and Averil,
When spray biginneth to spring{.e},
The lutel foul hath hir{.e} wyl
On hyr{.e} lud to syng{.e}.
Ich libbe in love longing{.e}
For semlokest of all{.e} thing{.e}.
He may me bliss{.e} bring{.e};
Icham in hire baundoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire brow{.e} broune, hire ey{.e} blak{.e};
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal, and wel ymak{.e}.
Bote he me woll{.e} to hire tak{.e},
Fort{.e} buen hire owen mak{.e},
Longe to lyven ichulle forsak{.e},
And fey{.e} fallen adoun.
Niht{.e}s when y wende and wak{.e},
Forthi myn wong{.e}s waxeth won;
Levedi, al for thin{.e} sak{.e}
Longinge is ylent me on.
In world nis non so wyter mon,
That al hire bounté tell{.e} con.
Hire swyre is whittore then the swon,
And feyrest may in toune.
Icham for wowyng al forwake,
Wery so water in wor{.e}.
Lest eny rev{.e} me my mak{.e},
Ychabbe y-yern{.e}d yor{.e}.
Betere is tholien whyl{.e} sor{.e}
Then mournen evermor{.e}.
Geynest under gor{.e},
Herkn{.e} to my roun.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Verses Written In An Album
Far above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,—
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,
On his joyous throne.
So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth
To that blessed height.
poem by Thomas Hood
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The humming top
The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song
To my dear little boy at play -
Merrily singeth all day long,
As it spinneth and spinneth away.
And my dear little boy
He laugheth with joy
When he heareth the monotone
Of that busy thing
That loveth to sing
The song that is all its own.
Hold fast the string and wind it tight,
That the song be loud and clear;
Now hurl the top with all your might
Upon the banquette here;
And straight from the string
The joyous thing
Boundeth and spinneth along,
And it whirrs and it chirrs
And it birrs and it purrs
Ever its pretty song.
Will ever my dear little boy grow old,
As some have grown before?
Will ever his heart feel faint and cold,
When he heareth the songs of yore?
Will ever this toy
Of my dear little boy,
When the years have worn away,
Sing sad and low
Of the long ago,
As it singeth to me to-day?
poem by Eugene Field
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Little-oh dear
See, what a wonderful garden is here,
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown -
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
And never ye'll meet with a garden so queer
As this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
Roses and pansies and violets - all
Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.
And up at the top of that lavender-tree
A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
For, ever and only, she singeth the song
"I love you - I love you!" the happy day long; -
Then the echo - the echo that smiteth me here!
"I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!
The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly -
But what careth my little precious, or I?
From her pathway of flowers that in spring time upstart
She walketh the tenderer way in my heart
And, oh, it is always the summer-time here
With that song of "I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!
poem by Eugene Field
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This World's Joy
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou thise leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike and mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit geth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graveth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al bydene:
Jehsu, help that hit be sene
And shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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This World's Joy
WYNTER wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
You Say You Love
I
You say you love ; but with a voice
Chaster than a nun's, who singeth
The soft Vespers to herself
While the chime-bell ringeth-
O love me truly!
II
You say you love; but with a smile
Cold as sunrise in September,
As you were Saint Cupid 's nun,
And kept his weeks of Ember.
O love me truly!
III
You say you love but then your lips
Coral tinted teach no blisses,
More than coral in the sea
They never pout for kisses
O love me truly!
IV
You say you love ; but then your hand
No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth,
It is like a statue's dead
While mine to passion burneth
O love me truly!
V
O breathe a word or two of fire!
Smile, as if those words should bum me,
Squeeze as lovers should O kiss
And in thy heart inurn me!
O love me truly!
poem by John Keats
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Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'
'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.
'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Sonnet 102: My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days—
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Break of Day
'Tis true, 'tis day ; what though it be?
O, wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
O ! that's the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Break of Day (another of the same)
'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise, because 'tis light?
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say -
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that's the worst disease of love!
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.
poem by John Donne
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The World Around the Child Doth Learn
The world around the child doth learn
Whilst low below the beast doth worm.
The child doth know not of the Earth.
The worm knows nothing of its birth.
The river flows a mighty flow
Knowing all the river knows
Shiver sorrow – Sleep in woe
Keep sane until the morrow.
The world around the child doth turn
Whilst low below the beast doth burn.
Learning sorrow – Yearning desire
Leaves him warm beside the fire.
Happy is he to conspire.
So happy is he to respire.
poem by David Lacey
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The Legend Of The Crossbill. (From The German Of Julius Mosen)
On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,
Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness:
'Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!'
And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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