An Early Spring

We have been blessed with a mild winter and an early spring this year. This morning, gentle showers heralded what is known as the most romantic season. The day began temperate and grey, with a gentle drizzle spraying the blossoming trees outside our bedroom window. The weather has been perfect – temperature in the early 60s – and the landscape is a burst of color, greens of all shades, buds pushing their way through headfirst, washed and nourished by the rain. One hears the steady drip-drip of water falling from the roof’s gutters onto the cement patio, and the staccato of raindrops on the eaves.

One is tempted to curl up in bed with an Alexander McCall Smith (preferably an Isabel Dalhousie), Simon & Garfunkel playing in the background, and a box of truffles by one’s side or a caramel macchiato, whichever appeals at that moment. But there is work to do and miles to go before I sleep ;). All I can indulge myself are a few words of thanks to Mother Nature in this post. So I quote Chaucer on this delicious day, in ceremonious gratitude to the universe…These are the first 18 lines of his ‘Prologue…’, a fictional (perhaps) account in verse of the stories told by a group of pilgrims on their way to the shrine of Thomas a Becket (Canterbury Cathedral) from Southwark (London). To be honest, the felicitous weather urges me to embark on a pilgrimage myself - to the homes once inhabited by Keats, Dickens, and Dr. Johnson - but that will have to wait till a trip to London is in the offing. For the present, daydreaming with Chaucer will have to do...

Diane Jones' reading of the Prologue in Middle English:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahuT-JwxIa8&feature=related

(right) An engraving of Chaucer in Speght’s 1598 edition of Chaucer’s ‘Works’

(The first 18 lines of)

The General Prologue – Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 – 1400)

Middle English…

Pronunciation…

Whan that Aprille with his shoores soote
Wan thot A'prill with his sure-es soo-tuh

The drought of March hath perced to the roote
The drowgt of March hath pear-said to the roo-tuh

And bathed every vein in swich liquor
And ba-thed every vane in sweech lee-coor

Of which vertu engendred is the flour
of wheech ver-too en-jen-dred is the flu-er

When Zephyrus eek with his sweete breeth
When Zeph-er-us ache with his sway-tuh breath

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
In-spear-ed hath in every holt and heth

The tendre croppes and the yonge sun
The tawn-dray crop-pays and the young-gay soan

Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne
Hath in the rahm his hall-vey coors e-rown

And smale fowles maken melodye
And smal-ay foe-lays mock-en mel-oh-dee-uh

That slepen all the night with open eye
That slep-en all the neekdt with open ee-ah

So priketh hem nature in hir courages
So prick-eth him nah-tour in hear core-ahj-ez

Thanne longen folke to goon pilgrimages
Thah-nay lon-gen folk to goen-on pilgrim-ahj-ez

And palmeres for to seeken stronge straundes
And palm-ers for to sake-en stroan-jay stroan-days

To ferne halwes couth in sondry londes
To fair-nay hallways kouth in soan-dray loan-days

And specially from every shires ende
And specially from every shear-ez end-uh

Of Engelond to Canterbury they wende
Of Eng-gal-ond to Khan-ter-bury they wend-uh

The hooly blissful martyr for to seeke
The holy blissful martyr for to sake-uh

That hem hath holpen whan that they were sike
That hem hath holp-en whan that they were seek-uh

In modern English…

When fair April with his showers sweet,
Has pierced the drought of March to the root’s feet
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower
When the West Wind too, with his sweet breath,
Has breathed new life – in every copse and heath -
Into each tender shoot, and the young sun
From Aries moves to Taurus on his run,
And those small birds begin their melody,
(The ones who ‘sleep’ all night with open eye,)
Then nature stirs them up to such a pitch
That folk all long to go on pilgrimage
And wandering travellers tread new shores, strange strands,
Seek out far shrines, renowned in many lands,
And specially from every shire’s end
Of England to Canterbury they wend
The holy blessed martyr there to seek,
Who has brought health to them when they were sick.

Chaucer’s portrait from Hoccleve’s ‘Regiment of Princes’ (1410 - 11). Hoccleve (1368 – 1426) was a self-proclaimed ‘literary son’ of Chaucer, and it is possible that he may have met him.