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Underneath the Bough: A Book of Verses cover

Underneath the Bough: A Book of Verses

Chapter 44: III. LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS.
By George Allan England
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Poetry

About This Book

A collection of verse that shifts between brisk depictions of modern life—motor races and city heat—and intimate lyrical sonnets exploring love, memory, and devotional longing. Classical and medieval references recur alongside pagan pastoral fantasies that imagine escape to woodland Hesperides, while formal experiments include songs, sonnets, ballades, rondeaux and a pantoum. A seasonal sequence maps moods across spring to winter, and a concluding suite treats mortality through elegy and dark humor. The poems balance energetic narrative scenes with reflective, sometimes elegiac meditations on desire, nature, and death.

Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans.

I.
LE TEMPS A LAISSIÉ SON MANTEAU.

YE TIME hath lefte his mantle fall
Of biting windes and cold and rain,
And well hath dight himself again
In sunlight shining cleare on all;
Creatures be none, nor birds, but call
One to another their own refrain:
Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall
Of biting windes and cold and rain.
Fountaines and brooks moste musical
Their fayrest dress to wear be fain;
With silvern drops and golde, amain,  
Each newlie decks hymself withall;
Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall.

II.
DIEU! QU’IL LA FAIT BON REGARDER!

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,
All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien;
Such virtues be in her y-seen
All men stand ready with their praise.
Who then could weary of her ways?
Her beautie flowereth ever green;
Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,
All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien.
This side or yon of Ocean’s maze
Nor dame nor damozel, I ween
So wholly parfaict yet hath been—
A dream, to think on her always:
Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...

III.
LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS.

Ye maides in waiting all be here
Of Summertide, to deck her hall,
To hang her arras, woven all
With golden flowers and verdure clear;
To stretch her carpet far and near
Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall;
Ye maides in waiting all be here
Of Summertide, to deck her hall.
Hearts that but late were cold and drear
Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall;
Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall!
Out on thee, Winter, old and blear!
Ye maides in waiting all be here...