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An old man in
a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all
around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and
hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He
listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth
in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn,
who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the
crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and
from every page
Rise odours of ploughed field or
flowery mead.
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