Classic Poem

Autumn Song, An

Now shrinkeþ rose ant lylie-flour
that whilen ber þat suete savour
In somer, þat suete tide.
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no levedy so bryht in bour,
that ded ne shal byglyde.
Whose wol fleysh lust forgon
Ant Hevene blis abyde,
On Jhesu be is þoht anon
that þerled was ys side.

From Petresbourh in o morewenyng,
As Y me wende o my pleygyng,
On mi folie Y þohte.
Menen Y gon my mournyng
To hire þat ber þe hevene Kyng,
Of mercy hire bysohte:
‘Ledy, preye þi sone for ous,
that us duere bohte,
Ant shild us from þe loþe hous
that to þe fend is wrohte.’

Mine herte of dedes wes fordred,
Of synne þat Y have my fleish fed
Ant folewed all my tyme:
that Y not whider I shal be led,
When Y lygge on deþes bed,
In joie ore into pyne.
On o Ledy mine hope is,
Moder ant virgyne:
We shulen into hevene blis
thurh hire medicine.

Betere is hire medycyn
then eny mede or eny wyn,
Hire erbes smulleþ suete.
From Catenas into Dyvelyn
Nis þer no leche so fyn
Oure sorewes to bete.
Mon þat feleþ eny sor,
Ant his folie wol lete,
Wiþoute gold oþer eny tresor
He mai be sound ant sete.

Of penaunce is his plastre al,
Ant ever serven hire Y shal,
Now ant al my lyve.
Now is fre þat er wes þral,
All þourh þat levedy, gent ant smal,
Heried be hyr joies fyve.
Wherso eny sek is
thider hye blyve;
thurh hire beoþ ybroht to blis
Bo mayden ant wyve.

For he þat dude is body on tre
Of oure sunnes have piete,
that weldes hevene boures.
Wymmon, wiþ þy jolyfte,
thou þench on Godes shoures:
thah þou be whyt ant bryth on ble
Falewen shule þy floures.
Jesu have merci of us,
that al þis world honoures. Amen.English