An old man in a lodge within a park;
       &nbsp The chamber walls depicted all around
       &nbsp With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound.
       &nbsp And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
       &nbsp Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
       &nbsp He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
       &nbsp Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
       &nbsp The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
       &nbsp Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
       &nbsp Of lark and linnet, and from every page
       &nbsp Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.