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