PROFESSOR ALBRECHT CLASSEN

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1.

Solis iubar nituit,

nuntians in mundum,

quod nobis emicuit

tempus letabundum.

ver, quod nunc apparuit,

dans solum fecundum,

alutari meruit per carmen iocundum.

Refl. Ergo nostra contio psallat cum tripudio dulci melodia!

2. Fugiente penitus hiemis algore spirat ether tacitus estu gratiore. discendente celitus salutari rore fecundatur funditus tellus ex humore.

Refl. Ergo nostra contio psallat cum tripudio dulci melodia!

no. 156 — James Blakeley

c’atretal deuria fayre

lo seis jorns de la semayna!"

7

"Toza," fi m’ieu, "gentil fada

vos adastrec can fos nada

d’una beutat esmerada

sobre tot’autra vilayna;

cortes cortez’ aventura

e·l vilas ab la vilayna;

Moniot d’Arras, « Ce fu en mai » (Old French) — Jonathan Beck

(Text from the critical edition by H. Petersen Dyggve)

Attributed to Moniot d’Arras or Moniot de Paris, 13^th century. Text and music are preserved in the four major Northern French songbooks (chansonniers), and are available on numerous recordings of Old French Trouvère lyric (see note below). Text from the critical edition by H. Petersen Dyggve. Trans. J. Beck.

I. Ce fu en mai

Au douz tens gai

Que la sesons est bele.

Main me levai

Joer m’alai

Lez une fontenele

En un vergier

Clos d’esglentier

Oï une viële.

La vi dancier

Un chevalier

Et une damoisele.

II. Cors orent gent

Et avenant

Et Dex! tant biau dançoient!

En acolant

Et en besant

Mult biau se deduisoient.

En un destor,

Au chief du tour,

Dui et dui s’en aloient

Desor la flor -

Le gieu d’amor

A leur plesir fesoient.

III. J’alai avant,

Trop redoutant

Que nus d’els ne me voie,

Maz et pensanz

Et desirranz

D’avoir autretel joie.

Lors vi lever

Un de leur per

De si loing com g’estoie

Por apeler

Et demander

Qui sui et que queroie.

4. J’alai vers aus

Dis lor mes maus,

Que une dame amoie

A qui loiaux

Sanz estre faus

Tout mon vivant seroie;

Pour cui plus trai

Peine et esmai

Que dire ne porroie.

Las, or morrai,

Car bien le sai,

S’ele ne mi ravoie.

5. Cortoisement

Et gentement

Chascuns d’els me ravoie,

Et dient tant

Que Dex briement

M’envoit de cele joie

Pour qui je sent

Paine et torment.

Et je leur en rendoie

Merci mult grant;

Et en plorant,

A Dieu les conmandoie.

‘Nel mes d’abril, después yantar,

estaba so un olivar.

Entre cimas d’un mançanar

un vaso de plata vi estar;

pleno era d’un claro vino,

que era bermejo e fino;

cubierto era a tal mesura

no lo tocás’ la calentura.

Una duena lo í heba puesto,

que era senora del huerto,

que cuan su amigo viniese,

d’aquel vino a beber le diesse.

Qui de tal vino hobiesse

en la mañana cuan comiesse;

e dello oviesse cada día

nuncas más enfermaría.

Arriba del mançanar

otro vaso vi estar;

pleno era d’un agua frida

que en el mançanar se nacía.

Bebiera d’ela de grado,

mas hobi miedo que era encantado.

Sobre un prado pus’ mi tiesta

que nom’ fiziese mal la siesta;

partí de mí las vistiduras

que nom’ fiziese mal la calentura.

Pleguem’ a una fuente perenal,

nunca fue homne que vies tall;

tan grant virtud en sí había,

que de la fridor que d’í ixía,

cient pasadas aderredor

non sintriades la calor.

Todas yerbas que bien olien

la fuent cerca sí las tenie:

y es la salvia, y son las rosas,

y el lirio e las violas;

otras tantas yerbas í había,

que sol’ nombrar no las sabría:

mas ell olor que d’í ixía

a homne muerto ressucitaría.

Pris’ del agua un bocado

e fui todo esfriado.

En mi mano pris’ una flor,

Sabet, non toda la peyor;

e quis’ cantar de fin amor.

Mas vi venir una doncella;

pues naci, non vi tan bella;

blanca era e bermeja,

cabelos cortos sobr’ell oreja,

fruente blanca e loçana,

cara fresca como mançana;

nariz egual e dreita,

nunca viestes tan bien feita,

ojos negros e ridientes,

boca a razón e blancos dientes;

labros bermejos non muy delgados,

por verdat bien mesurados;

por la centura delgada,

bien estant e mesurada;

el manto e su brial

de xamet era que non d’ál;

un sombrero tien’ en la tiesta,

que nol’firiese mal la siesta;

unas luvas tien’en la mano,

sabet non ie las dió villano.

De las flores viene tomando,

en alta voz d’amor cantando.

E decia: «¡Ay, meu amigo,

si me veré yamás contigo!

¡Amet’ sempre e amaré

cuanto que viva seré!

Porque eres escolar,

quisquiere te debría más amar.

Nunca odí de homne decir

que tanta bona maneras hobo en sí.

Más amaría contigo estar,

que toda Espana mandar.

Más d’una cosa só cuitada;

he miedo de seder enganada;

que dizen que otra dona,

cortesa e bela e bona,

te quiere tan gran ben,

por ti pierde su sen;

e por eso hé pavor

que a ésa quieras mejor.

Mas s’yo te vies’ una vegada,

¡a plan me queries por amada!»

Cuant la mia senor esto dizía,

sabet, a mí non vidía;

pero sé que no me conocía,

que de mí non foiría.

Yo non fiz aquí como villano,

levem’ e pris’ la por la mano;

juñiemos amos en par

e posamos so ell olivar.

Dix’ le yo : «Dezit, la mia senor,

¿si supiestes nunca d’amor?»

Diz ella: «A plan, con grant amor ando,

mas non conozco mi amado;

pero dizem’ un su mesajero

que es clérigo e non caballero,

sabe muito de trovar

de leyer e de cantar;

dizem’ que es de buenas yentes,

mancebo barbapuñientes».

«Por Dios, que digades, la mia senor,

¿que donas tenedes por la su amor?»

«Estas luvas y est’ capiello,

est’oral y est’aniello

envió a mí es’ meu amigo, q

ue por la su amor trayo conmigo.»

Yo coñocí luego las alfayas,

que yo ie las habia enviadas;

ela coñoció una mi cinta man a mano,

qu’ela la fiziera con la su mano.

Toliós’ el manto de los hombros;

besóme la boca e por los ojos;

tan gran sabor de mí había,

sol’ fablar non me podía.

«¡Dios senor, a ti loado

cuant conozco meu amado!

¡Agora e tod’ bien comigo

cuan conozco meo amigo!»

Una grant pieça allí estando,

de nuestro amor ementando,

elam’ dixo : «El mio senor, horam’ sería de tornar,

si a vos non fuese en pesar». Y

ol’ dix’ : «It, la mia senor, pues que ir queredes,

mas de mi amor pensat, fe que debedes».

Elam’ dixo: «Bien seguro seit de mi amor,

no vos camiaré por un emperador».

La mia senor se va privado,

dexa a mi desconortado.

Queque la vi fuera del huerto,

por poco non fui muerto.

Por verdat quisieram’ adormir,

mas una palomela vi;

tan blanca era como la nieu del puerto,

volando viene por medio del huerto,

un cascabiello dorado

trai al pie atado.

En la fuent quiso entrar

mas cuando a mí vido estar,

entrós’ en el vaso del malgranar.

Cuando en el vaso fue entrada,

y fue toda bien esfriada,

ella que quiso salir festino,

virtióse el agua sobre el vino.

(Medieval Italian) — Jill Ricketts

A la stagion che ‘l mondo foglia e fiora

Cresce gioia a tuti fin’ amanti:

vanno insieme a li giardini alora

che gli auscelletti fanno dolzi canti;

la franca gente tutta s’inamora,

e di servir ciascun trages’ inanti,

ed ogni damigella in gioia dimora;

e me, n’abondan marimenti e pianti.

Ca lo mio padre m’ha messa ‘n errore,

e tenemi sovente in forte doglia:

donar mi vole a mia forza segnore,

ed io di ciò non ho disio né voglia,

e ‘n gran tormento vivo a tutte l’ore;

però non mi rallegra fior né foglia

126 from the Rime Sparse — Jill Ricketts

Chiare fresche et dolci acque

ove le belle membra

pose colei che sola a me par donna,

gentil ramo ove piacque

(con sospir mi rimembra)

a lei di fare al bel fianco colonna,

erba et fior che la gonna

leggiadra ricoverse

co l’angelico seno,

aere sacro sereno

ove Amore co’ begli occhi il cor  m’aperse:

date udienza insieme

a le dolenti mie parole estreme.

S’egli è pur mio destino,

e ‘l cielo in ciò s’adopra,

ch’ Amor quest’occhi lagrimando chiuda,

qualche grazia il meschino

corpo fra voi ricopra,

e troni l’alma al proprio albergo ignuda;

la morte fia men cruda

se questa spene porto

a quel dubbioso passo,

ché lo spirito lasso

non poria mai in più riposato porto

né in più tranquilla fossa

fuggir la carne travagliata et l’ossa.

Tempo verrà ancor forse

ch’ a l’usato soggiorno

torni la fera bella et mansueta

et là ‘v’ ella mi scorse

nel benedetto giorno

volga la vista disiosa et lieta,

cercandomi, et – o pieta –

già terra infra le pietre

vedendo, Amor l’inspiri

in guisa che sospiri

sì dolcemente che mercé m’impetre

et faccia forza al cielo,

asciugandosi gli occhi col bel velo.

Petrarch, Rime Sparse 310

— Jill Ricketts

Zefiro torna, e ‘l bel tempo rimena,

e i fiori et l’erbe, sua dolce famiglia   

et garrir Progne, e pianger Filomena

et Primavera candida et vermiglia;

ridono i prati, e ‘l ciel si rasserena;

Giove s’allegra di mirar sua figlia;

l’aria, e l’acqua, e la terra è d’amor piena,

ogni animal d’amar si riconsiglia.

Ma per me, lasso, tornano i più gravi

sospiri, che del cor profondo tragge

quella ch’al Ciel se ne portò le chiavi.

— Jill Ricketts

Fresca rosa novella,

piacente primavera,

per prato e per riviera

gaiamente cantando,

vostro fin pregio mando a la verdura.

Lo vostro pregio fino

in gio’ si rinovelli

da grandi e da zitelli

per ciascuno cammino:

e cantinne gli augelli

ciascuno in suo latino

da sera e da mattino

su li verdi arbuscelli.

Tutto lo mondo canti,

poi che lo tempo vene,

si come si convene,

vostr’ altezza pregiata,

che siete angelicata criatura.

Io mi senti’svegliar dentro a lo core

— Jill Ricketts

Io mi senti’svegliar dentro a lo core

Un spirito amoroso che dormia:

E poi vidi venir da lungi Amore

Allegro sì, che appena il conoscia,

Dicendo: "Or pensa pur di farmi onore"

E ’n ciascuna parola sua ridia.

E poco stando meco il mio segnore,

Guardando in quella parte onde venia,

Io vidi monna Vanna e monna Bice

Venire inver lo loco là ‘v’io era,

L’una appresso de l’altra maraviglia;

E sì come la mente mi ridice,

Amor mi disse: "Quell’è Primavera,

E quell’ha nome Amor, sì mi somiglia

Heinrich von Veldeke (ca. 1170-1190) Middle High German

— Albrecht Classen

(Text from the edition of Des Minnesangs Frühling, ed. Hugo Moser and Helmut Tervooren, 1988)

Swer mir schade an mîner vrowen MF 58.11

I. Swer mir schade an mîner vrowen,

dem wünsche ich des rîses

dar an die diebe nement ir ende.

swer mîn dar an schône mit trouwen,

dem wünsche ich des paradîses

unde valte ime mîne hende.

Vrâge iemen, wer si sî,

der bekenne sî dâ bî:

ez ist diu wolgetâne.

gnâde, vrowe, mir,

der sunnen gan ich dir,

sô schîne mir der mâne.

II. Swie mîn nôt gevüeger waere,

sô gewunne ich liep nâch leide

unde vröide manicvalde,

wan ich weiz vil liebiu maere:

die bluomen springent an der heide,

die vogel singent in dem walde.

Da wîlent lac der snê,

dâ stât nu grüener klê,

er touwet an dem morgen.

swer nu welle, der vröwe sich,

niemen noet es mich:

ich bin unledic von sorgen.

— Albrecht Classen

(Text taken from the edition and translation by Siegfried Beyschlag, 1975)

Wol dem tage (R 25, 1)

I. Wol dem tage,

der al der werlde hôchgemüete trage

und vil mangem herzen vröude mêret!

winder sî gunêret!

der brach uns ze leide

bluomen an der heide.

die stênt aber in liehter ougenweide.

II. Grôzen schal

hoer ich die vogele singen über al,

süezen sanc den âbent und den morgen.

ende hât ir sorge.

in kündet sich der meie.

sumerlîch geschreie

daz enhoeret niemen, erne reie.

III. Nu ist der walt

schône geloubet, den der winder kalt

het beroubet. demst ein teil vergolten.

junge mägde solten

sich stolzlîchen zieren,

ir gewant ridieren,

an die man mit einem ougen zwieren.

IV. "ich wil dar

stolzelîchen springen an der schar,"

sprach ein maget, "unverwendeclîchen

mich zu vreuden strîchen.

ich hân, deist âne lougen,

einen ritter tougen

an gesehen mit beiden mînen ougen.

V. Dem bin ich holt.

muoter, dar umbe dû niht zürnen solt.

ich kum nimmer tac von dînem râte."

"tohter, deist ze spâte.

der schuohe und der kleider

springest âne beider.

mir getet dehein mîn kint nie leider."

V. "Mîner wât

hân ich durch sînen willen gerne rât,

den ich hân erwelt ûz allen mannen."

"tohter, sage, von wannen

er sî, der uns beide

wil der triuwen scheiden!

kint, erwint und volge dîner eiden!"

— Albrecht Classen

(Text taken from the edition by K. K. Klein, 1987)

Kl. 21 Ir alten weib

I. Ir alten weib, nu freut eu mit den jungen!

was uns der kalte winter hat betwungen,

das wil der meie mit geschraie dungen

mit süsser krafft, den würzlin geben safft.

Des kalden snees mag er nit lenger tauren;

was sich versmogen aht in krumbes lauren,

das wil er wecken, recken schir aus trauren,

laub, plümlin plüd, gras, würmli, tierli müd.

Ir voglin, smierbt eur rauhe kel,

trett auff höher, singet hel!

ir wilden tier, verneut eur fel,

hart welgt euch in den plümlin gel!

ir freulin, gailt eu sunder quel!

gepawer, reut ain ander mel,

das du den herbst wilt bachen.

Perg, au und tal, forscht, das gevild

sich schon erzaigt aus grundes mild;

All creatuer, zam und wild,

nach junger frucht senlichen quillt,

jetz seim geleichem nach gepildt;

mein örsch schreit gen des maien schilt,

des tüt der esel lachen.

Raien, springen,

louffen, ringen,

geigen, singen,

lat her bringen,

klumpern, klingen,

mündli zwingen,

frölich dringen

gen den freulin zart.

An verlangen

well wir brangen

in den sangen

mit verhangen

laub die wangen

mit ermlin umbfangen,

zünglin zangen,

des freut sich mein bart.

II. Wie wol der gauch von hals nit schon quientieret

und der franzoisch hoflich discantieret:

"gug gugk, lieb ruck", der hal mir bas sonieret

und freut mich vil für Jöstlins saitenspil.

Hetz jagen, baissen, biersen, schiessen tauben,

vor grünem wald nach pfifferlingen klauben

mit ainer mait, beklait von ainer stauden,

den lust ich breis für alle hofeweis.

Mai, dein gezellt gevellt mir wol,

wo man grëslin baden sol;

ain jegklich wild besücht sein hol,

da es die jungen birgt vor dol.

"trinck tranck Katalon, Spaniol",

dasselb gesangk und "paga den zol!

der troschel nicht geleichet.

In demselben land so nam ich war,

und secht ir mir icht grawe har,

die trüg ich von den freulin zwar,

die weissen bainlin wolgevar

verdackt mit roten hosen gar

und ire liechte öglin klar

mit swarzer farb bestreichet.

Der mich aine,

die ich maine,

freut allaine;

leib, gebaine

wer nicht saine,

mein trauren klaine,

ach, die raine,

mitt sis hosen tüch.

Mit den gebunden

snüren unden,

gar verswunden

wër mein wunden,

und hett funden

all mein kunden;

in Paris, Lunden

frümt ich ir zwen schüch.

When þe nyhtegale singes —

Christopher Carroll (Middle English)

lef & gras & blosme springes in aueryl y:wene

ant loue is to myn herte gon wiþ one spere so kene

nyht & day my blod hit drynkes myn herte deþ me tene.

Ich haue loued al þis 3er þat y may loue namore

ich haue siked moni syk lemmon for þin ore

me nis loue neuer þe ner & þat me reweþ sore

suete lemmon þench on me ich haue loued þe 3ore

Suete lemmon y preye þe of loue one speche

whil y lyue in world so wyde oþer nulle y seche

wiþ þy loue my suete leof mi blis þou mihtes eche

a suete cos of þy mouþ mihte be my leche.

Suete lemmon y:pree3e þe of a loue bene

3ef þou me louest ase men says lemmon as y wene

ant 3ef hit þi wille be þou loke þat hit be sene

so muchel y þenke vpon þe þat al y waxe grene.

Bituene Lyncolne & Lyndeseye Norhamptoun ant Lounde,

ne wot y non so fayr a:may as y go fore ybounde

suete lemmon y pre3e þe þou louie me a stounde.

Y wole mone my song

on wham þat hit ys on ylong.

The General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales

- Christopher Carroll (Middle English)

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

So priketh hem nature in hir corages);

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

The Cuckoo Song

Sumer is icumen in,

Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweth sed and bloweth med

And springeth the wude nu.

Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteth after lomb,

Lhouth after calve cu,

Bulluc sterteth, bucke ferteth,

Murie sing, cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu,

Wel singes thu, cuccu,

Ne swik thu naver nu!

Sing cuccu nu, sing cuccu!

Sing cuccu nu, sing cuccu!

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Parliament of Fowls

— Roger Dahood (V. 484-504; 666-699) (Middle English)

Text taken from: http://sunsite.berkeley.edu/OMACL/Parliament/.

Of al my lyf, sin that day I was born,

So gentil plee in love or other thing

Ne herde never no man me beforn,

Who-so that hadde leyser and cunning

For to reherse hir chere and hir speking;

And from the morwe gan this speche laste

Til dounward drow the sonne wonder faste.

The noyse of foules for to ben delivered

So loude rong, ‘have doon and let us wende!’

That wel wende I the wode had al to-shivered.

‘Come of!’ they cryde, ‘allas! ye wil us shende!

Whan shal your cursed pleding have an ende?

How shulde a Iuge eyther party leve,

For yee or nay, with-outen any preve?’

The goos, the cokkow, and the doke also

So cryden, ‘kek, kek!’ ‘kukkow!’ ‘quek, quek!’ hye,

That thorgh myn eres the noyse wente tho.

The goos seyde, ‘al this nis not worth a flye!

But I can shape hereof a remedye,

And I wol sey my verdit faire and swythe

For water-foul, who-so be wrooth or blythe.’

***

And whan this werk al broght was to an ende,

To every foule Nature yaf his make

By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende.

A! lord! the blisse and Ioye that they make!

For ech of hem gan other in winges take,

And with hir nekkes ech gan other winde,

Thanking alwey the noble goddesse of kinde.

But first were chosen foules for to singe,

As yeer by yere was alwey hir usaunce

To singe a roundel at hir departinge,

To do to Nature honour and plesaunce.

The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce;

The wordes wer swich as ye may heer finde,

The nexte vers, as I now have in minde.

Qui bien aime a tard oublie.

‘Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders over-shake,

And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

‘Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte; --

Thus singen smale foules for thy sake --

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders over-shake.

‘Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,

Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;

Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders over-shake,

And driven away the longe nightes blake.’

And with the showting, whan hir song was do,

That foules maden at hir flight a-way,

I wook, and other bokes took me to

To rede upon, and yet I rede alway;

In hope, y-wis, to rede so som day

That I shal mete som thing for to fare

The bet; and thus to rede I nil not spare.

Parliamentum avium in die Sancti Valentini tentum secundum Galfridum Chaucer. Deo gracias.

From the Song of Songs - King James Translation (1611) (Early Modern English)

— John Ulreich

2 10 My beloved spake, and said unto me,

Rise up, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

11 For, lo, the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone;

12 The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of the singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

13 The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,

and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

4 12 A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse;

a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

13 Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates,

with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,

14 Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon,

with all trees of frankincense;

myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices:

15 A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters,

and streams from Lebanon.

16 Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south;

blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.

Let my beloved come into his garden,

and eat his pleasant fruits.

6 11 I went down into the garden of nuts

to see the fruits of the valley,

and to see whether the vine flourished,

and the pomegranates budded.

7 12 Let us get up early to the vineyards;

let us see if the vine flourish,

whether the tender grape appear,

and the pomegranates bud forth: . . .

13 and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits.

From The Description of Cooke_ham, by Aemilia Lanyer (1569-1645)

— John Ulreich

[I write for] you (great Lady) Mistris of [this] Place,

From whose desires did spring this worke of Grace;

Vouchsafe to thinke upon those pleasures past,

As fleeting worldly Joyes that could not last:

Which are desir’d above all earthly treasures.

Oh how (me thought) against you thither came,

Each part did seeme some new delight to frame!

The House receiv’d all ornaments to grace it,

And would indure no foulenesse to deface it.

The Walkes put on their summer Liveries,

And all things else did hold like similies:

The Trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad,

Embrac’d each other, seeming to be glad,

Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies,

To shade the bright Sunne from your brighter eies:

The cristall Streames with silver spangles graced,

While by the glorious Sunne they were embraced:

The little Birds in chirping notes did sing,

To entertaine both You and that sweet Spring.

And Philomela with her sundry leyes,

Both You and that delightfull Place did praise.

Oh how me thought each plant, each floure, each tree

Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee:

The very Hills right humbly did descend,

When you to tread upon them did intend.

And as you set your feete, they still did rise,

Glad that they could receive so rich a prise.

The gentle Windes did take delight to bee

Among those woods that were so grac’d by thee.

From Paradise Lost, Book IV – by John Milton (1608-1674)

— John Ulreich

With thee conversing I forget all time,

All seasons and thir change, all please alike.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun

When first on this delightful Land he spreads

His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flour,

Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertil earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on 

Of grateful Eevning milde, then silent Night

With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon,

And these the Gemms of Heav'n, her starrie train:

But neither breath of Morn when she ascends

With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun

On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, floure,

Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,

Nor grateful Eevning mild, nor silent Night

With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon,

Or glittering Starr-light without thee is sweet.

by George Herbert (1593-1633) — John Ulreich

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean

Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;

To which, besides their own demean,

The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.

Grief melts away

Like snow in May,

As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shriveled heart

Could have recovered greenness? It was gone

Quite underground; as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown;

Where they together

All the hard weather,

Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,

Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell

And up to heaven in an hour;

Making a chiming of a passing-bell.

We say amiss,

This or that is:

Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were,

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!

Many a spring I shoot up fair,

[Striving for] heaven, growing and groaning thither:

Nor doth my flower

Want a spring-shower,

My sins and I [weep]ing together:

But while I grow in a straight line,

Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,

Thy anger comes, and I decline:

What frost [compared] to that? what pole is not the zone

Where all things burn[?]

When thou dost turn

[Away, and hide thy face, I turn to stone.]

[But] now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;

I once more smell the dew and rain,

And relish versing: O my only light,

It cannot be

That I am he

On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,

To make us see we are but flowers that glide[,]

[Fading like lilies of the field:]

Which when we once can find and prove,

Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide[,]

[When once to Thine our wills we yield.]

Who would be more,

Swelling through store,

Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

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