Benjamin Brawley: Chaucer
| Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, | | | Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; | | | Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold | | | Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; | | | Across the night of ages strike the gleams, | | | And leading on the gilded host appears | | | An old man writing in a book of dreams, | | | And telling tales of lovers for the years; | | | Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay; | | | In Nature’s garden what a mad rout sings! | | | Let’s hear these motley pilgrims wile away | | | The tedious hours with stories of old things; | | | Or might some shining eagle claim | | | These lowly numbers for the House of Fame! | |
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