47
Save certainly, whan that the month of Maie
Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing,
And that the floures ginnen for to spring,
Farewell my booke, and my devocion:
Now have I than eke this condicion,
That of all the floures in the mede
Than love I most these flowres white and rede,
Soch that men callen Daisies in our toun,
To hem I have so great affectioun,
As I sayd erst, whan comen is the Maie,
That in my bedde there daweth me no daie,
That I n'am up and walking in the mede
To see this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede;
Whan it up riseth early by the morrow,
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow.
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it to done it alle reverence,
As she that is of alle floures the floure,
Fulfilled of all vertue and honoure,
And ever ylike faire, and fresh of hewe,
And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe,
And ever shall, till that mine herte die,
Alle sweare I not, of this I wool not lie.
He then tells how, at evening, he goes to watch,
As soon as ever the Sunne ginneth west
To seen this floure, how it will goe to rest,
For feare of night, so hateth she darknesse,
Her chere is plainly spred in the brightness
Of the Sunne, for there it woll unclose:
He then complains that he has neither rhyme nor prose "suffisaunt this floure to praise aright," and describes his eagerness to go forth into the fields before sunrise, to wait the "resurection" of the days-eye.
