CHAUCER

     In spryng-tyme he soong a merry song
     And put his bokes away
     Whan that sun cam out mor strong
     He opened his dore one day
     Grasses were grener from Aprille rayn
     Skies became bluer and clerer
     Soft somer windes were blowen again
     That wintres blast made drerer
     Hymselve wold like to bisier been
     In tyme of warmer weders
     To goen tothir end of the land
     Like foules with shining feders
     He roos from his bedde one sunny morn
     And took his hors from stable
     To flee away on winges of spryng
     As fast as he was able
     He wold pick fresh floures to hold in his happye
        hands
     Until he met a ladie fayre seyd he:
     (Ah! this is what Nay-Tyme is all about)
     "Taak this for fynal answere as of me".

     
     Note: 1983 Maine Writer's Conference Poems on Trees. Won 2nd prize in 
           Judges voting for serious poems.