Chaucer by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Read

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 odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.