Classic Poem

Aftir that hervest inned had hise sheves,
And that the broun sesoun of Myhelmesse
Was come, and gan the trees robbe of her leves
That grene had ben and in lusty freisshenesse,
And hem into colour of yelownesse
Had died, and doun throwen undir foote,
That chaunge sanke into myn herte-roote.

For freisshly broughte it to my remembraunce,
That stablenesse in this worlde is ther noon.
Ther is no thing but chaunge and variaunce.
Howe welthi a man be, or wel begoon,
Endure it shal not--he shal it forgoon.
Deeth undir foote shal him thriste adoun;
That is every wightes conclucioun.

Wiche for to weyve is in no mannes myght,
Howe riche he be, stronge, lusty, freissh, and gay.
And in the ende of Novembre, uppon a night,
Sighynge sore as I in my bed lay
For this and othir thoughtis wiche many a day
Byforne I tooke, sleep cam noon in myn ye,
So vexid me the thoughtful maladie.

I sy wel, sithin I with siknesse last
Was scourgid, cloudy hath bene the favour
That shoon on me ful bright in times past.
The sunne abated, and the dirke shour
Hilded doun right on me, and in langour
Me made swymme, so that my spirite
To lyve no lust had, ne no delite. . . .

. . . Men seiden, I loked as a wilde steer,
And so my looke aboute I gan to throwe.
Min heed to hie anothir seide I beer:
"Ful bukkissh is his brayn, wel may I trowe!'
And seyde the thridde--and apt is in the rowe
To site of hem that a resounles reed
Can geve--"No sadnesse is in his heed.'

Chaunged had I my pas, somme seiden eke,
For here and there forthe stirte I as a roo,
Noon abood, noon areest, but al brain-seke;
Another spake and of me seide also,
My feet weren ay wavynge to and fro
Whanne that I stonde shulde and with men talke,
And that myn yen soughten every halke.

I leide an ere ay to, as I by wente,
And herde al, and thus in myn herte I caste:
"Of longe abidinge here I may me repente;
Lest that of hastinesse I at the laste
Answere amys, beste is hens hie faste;
For if I in this prees amys me gye,
To harme wole it me turne and to folie.'

And this I demed wel, and knewe wel eke,
Whatso that evere I shulde answere or seie,
They wolden not han holde it worth a leke;
Forwhy, as I had lost my tunges keie,
Kepte I me cloos, and trussid me my weie,
Droupinge and hevy, and all woo-bistad;
Smal cause had I, me thoughte, to be glad.

My spirites labouriden evere ful bisily
To peinte countenaunce, chere, and look,
For that men spake of me so wondringly,
And for the very shame and feer I qwook.
Though myn herte hadde be dippid in the brook,
It weet and moist was ynow of my swoot,
Wiche was nowe frosty colde, nowe firy hoot.

And in my chaumbre at home whanne that I was,
Mysilfe aloone, I in this wise wrought:
I streite unto my mirrour and my glas,
To loke howe that me of my chere thought,
If any othir were it than it ought;
For fain wolde I, if it not had bene right,
Amendid it to my kunnynge and myght.

Many a saute made I to this mirrour,
Thinking, "If that I looke in this manere
Amonge folke as I nowe do, noon errour
Of suspecte look may in my face appere;
This countinaunce, I am sure, and this chere
If I it forthe use, is nothing reprevable
To hem that han conceitis resonable.'

And therwithal I thoughte thus anoon:
"Men in her owne cas bene blinde alday,
As I have herde seie manie a day agoon,
And in that same plite I stonde may;
Howe shal I do? Wiche is the beste way
My troublid spirit forto bringe in rest?
If I wiste howe, fain wolde I do the best.'

Sithen I recovered was, have I ful ofte
Cause had of anger and inpacience,
Where I borne have it esily and softe,
Suffringe wronge be done to me and offence,
And not answerid ayen but kepte scilence,
Leste that men of me deme wolde and sein,
"Se howe this man is fallen in ayein' . . .