Poetry Archives

In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
  And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
  To here the foulys song.

To se the dere draw to the dale
  And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow him in the leves grene
  Under the green-wode tree.

Hit befell on Whitsontide
  Early in a May mornyng,
The Sonne up faire can shyne,
  And the briddis mery can syng.

‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne,
  ‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
  Lyves not in Christiantè.

‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’
  Litulle Johne can say,
‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
  In a mornynge of May.’