Classic Poem

In the forèst of noyous hevynesse,
As I went wandring in the month of May,
I mette of love the mighty grete goddèsse,
Which axed me whither I was away.
I hir answèrd: ‘As fortune doth convey,
As one exìled from joy—al be me loth—
That passing well all folk me clepen may
The man forlost, that wot not where he goth.’

Half in a smile ayèn, of hir humblesse,
She saide: ‘My frend, if so I wist, ma fay,
Wherefore that thou art brought in such distresse,
To shape thyn ese I wolde my self assay;
For heretofore I sett thyn hert in way
Of grete plesère; I n'ot who made thee wroth;
It greveth me thee see in such aray,
The man forlost, that wot not where he goth.’

‘Allas!’ I saide, ‘most sovereine good princesse,
Ye know my case, what needeth to you say?
It is through Deth, that sheweth to alle rudesse,
Hath fro me tane that I most loved ay,

In whom that all myn hope and comfort lay:
So passing frendship was betwene us both
That I was not, to fals Deth did hir day,
The man forlost, that wot not where he goth.

‘Thus am I blind—allas and welaway!—
Al fer miswent, with my staf grapsing way,
That no thing axe but me a grave to cloth:
For pité is that I live thus a day,
The man forlost, that wot not where he goth.’