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Text:
THIS hanselle
hatz Arthur of auenturus
on fyrst
In úonge úer, for he úerned úelpyng to here.
Thaú hym wordez
were wane when þay to sete
wenten,
Now ar þay stoken of sturne werk, stafful her hond.
Gawan watz glad to begynne þose gomnez in halle,
Bot þaú þe ende
be heuy haf úe no wonder;
For þaú men ben mery in mynde quen þay han
mayn drynk,
A úere úernes ful úerne, and úeldez neuer lyke,
Þe forme to þe fynisment foldez ful selden.
Forþi þis úol ouerúede, and þe úere after,
And vche sesoun serlepes sued after oþer:
After Crystenmasse
com þe crabbed lentoun,
Þat fraystez flesch wyth þe
fysche and fode more symple;
Bot þenne þe weder of þe
worlde wyth wynter hit þrepez,
Colde clengez adoun, cloudez vplyften,
Schyre schedez þe rayn in schowrez
ful warme,
Fallez vpon fayre flat, flowrez þere schewen,
Boþe groundez and þe greuez grene
ar her wedez,
Bryddez busken to bylde, and bremlych syngen
For solace of þe softe somer þat sues þerafter
bi bonk;
And blossumez bolne to blowe
Bi rawez rych and ronk,
Þen notez noble innoúe
Ar herde in wod so wlonk.
After þe sesoun of somer wyth þe soft wyndez
Quen Zeferus syflez hymself on sedez and erbez,
Wela wynne is þe wort þat
waxes þeroute,
When þe donkande dewe dropez of þe leuez,
To bide a blysful blusch
of þe bryút sunne.
Bot þen hyúes heruest, and hardenes hym sone,
Warnez hym for þe wynter to wax ful rype;
He dryues wyth droút þe dust for to ryse,
Fro þe face of þe folde to flyúe ful hyúe;
Wroþe wynde of þe welkyn wrastelez
with þe sunne,
Þe leuez lancen fro þe lynde and lyúten on þe grounde,
And al grayes þe gres þat grene
watz ere;
Þenne al rypez and rotez þat ros
vpon fyrst,
And þus úirnez þe úere in úisterdayez mony,
And wynter wyndez aúayn, as þe worlde askez,
no fage,
Til Meúelmas mone
Watz cumen wyth wynter wage;
Þen þenkkez Gawan ful sone
Of his anious uyage.
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Translation:
This gift of adventure is what Arthur
got
to bring in the year with the boasts he liked best.
Yet they said little, but sat, took their seats,
gorged with grim business heaped in their hands.
Gawain was glad when those games began,
but no one should wonder at the weighty ending.
Men's minds may grow merry when their drinks are mighty,
but a year paces past in unforeseen patterns:
The model seldom matches what is made.
So Yule raced by, and the year ran after,
each season passing in set sequence.
After Christmas comes the discomfort of
Lent,
which tries the flesh with fish and simple food.
But then the world's weather wrestles with winter:
cold clings to the ground, but clouds rise,
releasing warm rain; rinsing showers
fall to the flat earth; flowers appear,
both field and forest are fringed with green.
Birds busy themselves building, and with brilliant song
celebrate summer, for soon each slope
will rush
to bloom with blossoms set
in lines luxuriant and lush,
while noble notes form nets
that fill the forest hush.
Then the summer season when the west
breeze blows
and soft winds sigh on seed and stem.
How the green things glory in their urgent growth
when the dripping dew drops from the leaves,
waiting for the warm sun's welcome glance.
But then Fall flies in, and fills their hearts,
Bidding them be rich, ripe, and ready for winter.
The autumn drought drives up dust
that billows in clouds above the broad earth.
Wild winds whistle, wrestling the sun;
Leaves launch from each limb and land on the soil,
while the green grass fades to grey.
What rose at the first now ripens and rots
till the year has gathered its full yield of yesterdays.
In the way of the world, winter winds
Around
til the Michaelmas moon
brings frost to touch the ground.
When Gawain remembers all too soon
that he is duty bound.
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