Classic Poem

There is a flowr sprung of a tree,
The roote therof is called Jessé,
A flowr of price;
Ther is non such in Paradise.

This flowr is fair and fresh of hew;
It fades never, but ever is new;
The blisful branch this flowr on grew
Was Mary mild, that bare Jesù,
A flowr of grace;
Agains al sorow it is solàce.

The sede hereof was Godes sand,
That God Himself sew with His hand,
In Bedlem, in that holé land,
Mides her herbèr, ther He her fand;
This blisful flowr
Sprang never but in Marys bowr.

When Gabriel this maide met,
With ‘Ave Mària’ he her gret;
Betwene hem two this flowr was set
And kept was (no man shulde wit)
Hent on a day
In Bedlem it can spred and spray.

When that flowr began to sprede
And his blossum forth to bede,
Rich and pore of everé lede,
They marveld how this flowr might sprede,
Til kinges three
That blisful flowre came to see.

Angeles ther came out of here towr
To looke upon this freshelé flowr,
How fair He was in His colòur,
And how swote in His savòur,
And to behold
How such a flowr might spring in gold.

Of lilye, of rose of rise,
Of primrole and of flour-de-lise,
Of al the flowrs, at my devise,
That flowr of Jesse yet bers the prise
As most of hele
To slake our sorows everédele.

I pray you, flowrs of this cuntré,
Wherever ye go, wherever ye be,
Hold up the flowr of good Jessé
Fore your freshness and your beuté,
As fairest of al,
And ever was and ever shal.