Classic Poem

Full many a time I smote and struck the door
And listened for someone to let me in,
When finally the yoke-elm wicket gate
Was opened by a maiden mild and fair —
Yellow her hair as burnished brazen bowl —
Tender her flesh as that of new-hatched chick —
Radiant her forehead — gently arched
Her brows — as gray as falcon's her two eyes,
And spaced so well that flirts might envy her.
Her chin was dimpled. Mingled white and red
Was all her face — her breath sweet as perfume.
Of seemliest dimensions was her neck
In length and thickness — free from wen or spot;
A man might travel to Jerusalem
And find no maid with neck more fair and smooth
And soft to touch. Her throat was white as snow
Fresh fallen upon a branch. No one need seek
In any land a lady daintier,
With body better made or form more fair.
A graceful golden chaplet on her head
Was set than which no maiden ever had
One more becoming, chic, or better wrought.
Above the polished chaplet she had placed
A wreath of roses fresh from morning dew.
Her hair was tressed back most becomingly
With richest comb. Her hand a mirror bore.
Her fair, tight sleeves most carefully were laced
White gloves protected her white hands from tan.
She wore a coat of rich green cloth of Ghent
All sewed with silk. It seemed from her attire
That she was little used to business.
When she was combed, adorned, and well arrayed,
Her daily task was done. A joyful time —
A year-long, carefree month of May — was hers,
Untroubled but by thoughts of fitting dress.
When thus for me she had unlocked the gate,
Politely did I thank the radiant maid
And also asked her name and who she was.
She answered pleasantly, without disdain:
" All my companions call me Idleness;
A woman rich and powerful am I.
Especially I'm blessed in one respect:
I have no care except to tress and comb
My hair, amuse myself, and take mine ease.
My dearest friend is Mirth, a genteel beau,
Who owns this garden planted full of trees
That he had brought especially for him
From that fair land where live the Saracens;
And, when the trees grew tall, he ordered made
The wall that, as you see, surrounds the whole,
Together with the images outside,
Which are not beautiful nor yet genteel,
But dolorous and sad, as you've observed.
To find diversion, Mirth oft seeks these shades
With all his company, who live in joy
And pleasure. Certainly he's now within,
Listening to the songs of nightingale,
Of wind thrush, and of many another bird.
Here with his friends he joy and solace finds,
For never could he want more pleasant place
Or one where he could more divert himself.
The fairest folk that you'll find anywhere
Are Mirth's companions, whom he keeps with him. "
When Idleness had told and I had heard
Her tale most willingly, I said to her:
" Dame Idleness, believe me when I say
That since Sir Mirth, a generous gentleman,
Is now within this garden with his friends,
I hope the assembly may not so prevent
Me that I may not see them all today.
I feel that I must meet them, for I think
The company is courteous and well taught
As well as fair. " Without another word
The gate by Idleness was opened wide;
I entered then upon that garden fair.
When once I was inside, my joyful heart
Was filled with happiness and sweet content.
You may right well believe I thought the place
Was truly a terrestrial paradise,
For so delightful was the scenery
That it looked heavenly; it seemed to me
A better place than Eden for delight,
So much the orchard did my senses please.
The singing birds throughout the garden thronged:
Here were the nightingales, and there the larks;
Here were the starlings, and the jays were there;
Here were the turtledoves, and there the wrens;
Here were the goldfinches, and there the doves;
Here were the thrushes, and the tomtits there.
New flocks from every side came constantly
As others of the singing seemed to tire.
The merle and mavis to surpass them all
Seemed striving; elsewhere, in each tree and bush
Where were their nests, parrots and other birds
Delighted in the song. A service meet,
As I have told you, all these birds performed;
For such a song they sang as angels sing,
And sang it, truly, to my great delight.
No mortal man e'er heard a fairer tune.
So soft and sweetly pealed their melody
That, if a man comparison should seek,
It seemed no hymn of birds, but mermaids' song,
Who for their voices clear, serene, and pure
Are Sirens called. These birds were not unskilled
Apprentices but tuneful journeymen,
And to their craft they gave their greatest care.
You may well know that, when I heard these tunes
And saw the verdant place, I was most gay.
Never so merry I — so glad of heart —
Until the day I knew that garden's charms!
Then I perceived most plainly and well knew
That Idleness had excellently served
In placing me in midst of such delight.
Well I resolved to be her faithful friend
Because she oped for me the wooden gate.
Henceforth, if I know how, I'll tell the tale
Of what befell; and, first, what did Sir Mirth,
And what the company he had, in brief
I will recount; the garden then describe.
No man could list the whole in little space;
But I will versify so orderly
That none may have a chance to criticize.
The birds kept on performing all their rites;
Sweetly and pleasantly they sang of love
And chanted sonnets courteously and well.
In part songs joining, one sang high, one low.
Their singing was beyond reproach; their notes
With sweetness and contentment filled my heart.
When I had listened for a little while
Unto the birds, I could no more refrain
From going straight to see Sir Mirth himself.
I much desired to know the state he kept
And his entourage. Turning to the right
And following a little path, with mint
And fennel fringed, into a small retreat,
Straightway I found Sir Mirth taking his ease.
With him he had so fair a company
That when I saw them I was quite amazed
To think whence such fine people could have come;
For, truly, winged angels they did seem.
No earth-born man had ever seen such folk.
This noble company of which I speak
Had ordered for themselves a caroling.
A dame named Gladness led them in the tune;
Most pleasantly and sweetly rang her voice.
No one could more becomingly or well
Produce such notes; she was just made for song.
She had a voice that was both clear and pure;
About her there was nothing rude, for she
Knew well the dance steps, and could keep good time
The while she voiced her song. Ever the first
Was she, by custom, to begin the tune;
For music was the trade that she knew best
Ever to practice most agreeably.
Now see the carol go! Each man and maid
Most daintily steps out with many a turn
And farandole upon the tender grass.
See there the flutists and the minstrel men,
Performers on the viol! Now they sing
A rondelet, a tune from old Lorraine;
For it has better songs than other lands.
A troop of skillful jugglers thereabout
Well played their parts, and girls with tambourines
Danced jollily, and, finishing each tune,
Threw high their instruments, and as these fell
Caught each on finger tip, and never failed.
Two graceful demoiselles in sheerest clothes,
Their hair in coifferings alike arrayed,
Most coyly tempted Mirth to join the dance.
Unutterably quaint their motions were:
Insinuatingly each one approached
The other, till, almost together clasped,
Each one her partner's darting lips just grazed
So that it seemed their kisses were exchanged.
I can't describe for you each lithesome glide
Their bodies made — but they knew how to dance!
Forever would I gladly have remained
So long as I could see these joyful folk
In caroling and dancing thus excel themselves.