from Troilus and Criseyde: Book I

Geoffrey Chaucer

(excerpt)

From Book I

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme

Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede

With newe grene, of lusty Veer the pryme,

And swote smellen floures white and rede,

In sondry wises shewed, as I rede,

The folk of Troie hir observaunces olde,

Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse,

In general ther wente many a wight,

To herknen of Palladion the servyse;

And namely, so many a lusty knyght,

So many a lady fressh and mayden bright,

Ful wel arayed, both meste, mene, and leste,

Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,

In widewes habit blak; but natheles,

Right as our firste lettre is now an A,

In beautee first so stood she, makeles;

Hire goodly lokyng gladed al the prees.

Nas nevere yet seyn thing to ben preysed derre,

Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichone

That hir bihelden in hir blake wede;

And yet she stood ful lowe and stille allone,

Byhynden other folk, in litel brede,

And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,

Simple of atir and debonaire of chere,

With ful assured lokyng and manere.

This Troilus, as he was wont to gide

His yonge knyghtes, lad hem up and doun

In thilke large temple on every side,

Byholding ay the ladies of the town,

Now here, now there; for no devoc{.i}oun

Hadde he to non, to reven hym his reste,

But gan to preise and lakken whom hym leste.

And in his walk ful faste he gan to wayten

If knyght or squyer of his compaignie

Gan for to syke, or lete his eighen baiten

On any womman that he koude espye;

He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,

And seye him thus, "God woot, she slepeth softe

For love of the, whan thou turnest ful ofte!

"I have herd told, pardieux, of your lyvynge,

Ye loveres, and youre lewed observaunces,

And which a labour folk han in wynnynge

Of love, and in the kepyng which doutaunces;

And whan your preye is lost, woo and penaunces.

O veray fooles! nyce and blynde be ye!

Ther nys nat oon kan war by other be."

And with that word he gan cast up the browe,

Ascaunces, "Loo! is this naught wisely spoken?"

At which the god of love gan loken rowe

Right for despit, and shop for to ben wroken.

He kidde anoon his bowe nas naught broken;

For sodeynly he hitte him atte fulle;

And yet as proud a pekok kan he pulle!

O blynde world, O blynde entenc{.i}oun!

How often falleth al the effect contraire

Of surquidrie and foul presumpc{.i}oun;

For kaught is proud, and kaught is debonaire.

This Troilus is clomben on the staire,

And litel weneth that he moot descenden;

But al-day faileth thing that fooles wenden.

As proude Bayard gynneth for to skippe

Out of the wey, so pryketh hym his corn,

Til he a lasshe have of the longe whippe;

Than thynketh he, "Though I praunce al byforn

First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,

Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe

I moot endure, and with my feres drawe."

333

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Willow by Anna Akhmatova

...and a decrepit handful of trees.
—Aleksandr Pushkin

And I matured in peace born of command,
in the nursery of the infant century,
and the voice of man was never dear to me,
but the breeze’s voice—that I could understand.
The burdock and the nettle I preferred,
but best of all the silver willow tree.
Its weeping limbs fanned my unrest with dreams;
it lived here all my life, obligingly.
I have outlived it now, and with surprise.
There stands the stump; with foreign voices other
willows converse, beneath our, beneath those skies,
and I am hushed, as if I’d lost a brother.