Geoffrey Chaucer: Все стихи поэта

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Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.

Only your word will heal the injury

To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean -

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.

Upon my word, I tell you faithfully

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne