Classic Poem

Many a man holds dreams to be but lies,
All fabulous; but there have been some dreams
No whit deceptive, as was later found.
Well might one cite Macrobius, who wrote
The story of the Dream of Scipio,
And was assured that dreams are ofttimes true.
But, if someone should wish to say or think
'Tis fond and foolish to believe that dreams
Foretell the future, he may call me fool.
Now, as for me, I have full confidence
That visions are significant to man
Of good and evil. Many dream at night
Obscure forecasts of imminent events.
When I the age of twenty had attained —
The age when Love controls a young man's heart —
As I was wont, one night I went to bed
And soundly slept. But then there came a dream
Which much delighted me, it was so sweet.
No single thing which in that dream appeared
Has failed to find fulfillment in my life,
With which the vision well may be compared.
Now I'll recount this dream in verse, to make
Your hearts more gay, as Love commands and wills;
And if a man or maid shall ever ask
By what name I would christen the romance
Which now I start, I will this answer make:
" The Romance of the Rose it is, and it enfolds
Within its compass all the Art of Love. "
The subject is both good and new. God grant
That she for whom I write with favor look
Upon my work, for she so worthy is
Of love that well may she be called the Rose.
Five years or more have passed by now, I think,
Since in that month of May I dreamed this dream —
In that month amorous, that time of joy,
When all things living seem to take delight,
When one sees leafless neither bush nor hedge,
But each new raiment dons, when forest trees
Achieve fresh verdure, though they dry have been
While winter yet endured, when prideful Earth,
Forgetting all her winter poverty
Now that again she bathes herself in dew,
Exults to have a new-spun, gorgeous dress;
A hundred well-matched hues its fabric shows
In new-green grass, and flowers blue and white
And many divers colors justly prized.
The birds, long silent while the cold remained —
While changeful weather brought on winter storms —
Are glad in May because of skies serene,
And they perforce express their joyful hearts
By utterance of fitting minstrelsy.
Then nightingales contend to fill the air
With sound of melody, and then the lark
And popinjay with songs amuse themselves.
The young folk then their whole attention give
To suit the season fair and sweet with love
And happiness. Hard heart has he, indeed,
Who cannot learn to love at such a time,
When he these plaintive chants hears in the trees.
In this delightful month, when Love excites
All things, one night I, sleeping, had this dream.
Methought that it was full daylight. I rose
In haste, put on my shoes and washed my hands,
Then took a silver needle from its case,
Dainty and neat, and threaded it with silk.
I yearned to wander far outside the town
To hear what songs the birds were singing there
In every bush, to welcome the new year.
Basting my sleeves in zigzags as I went,
I pleased myself, in spite of solitude.
Listening to the birds that took such pains
To chant among the new-bloom-laden boughs.
Jolly and gay and full of happiness,
I neared a rippling river which I loved;
For I no nicer thing than that stream knew.
From out a hillside close thereby it flowed,
Descending full and free and clear and cold
As water from a fountain or well.
Though it was somewhat lesser than the Seine,
More broad it spread; a fairer I ne'er saw.
Upon the bank I sat, the scene to scan,
And with the view delight myself, and lave
My face in the refreshing water there;
And, as I bent, I saw the river floor
All paved and covered with bright gravel stones.
The wide, fair mead reached to the water's edge.
Calm and serene and temperate and clear
The morning was. I rose; and through the grass
Coasting along the bank I followed down the stream.