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Enter Poem or Quote (Required) Medieval Poems Wulf and Eadwacer (Old English circa 990 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My people pursue him like crippled prey. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. We are so different! Wulf's on one island; I'm on another. His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. Here, bloodthirsty curs roam this island. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. We are so different! My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds. Whenever it rained, as I wept, the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms: good feelings for him, but their end loathsome! Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your infrequent visits have left me famished, deprived of real meat! Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods. One can easily sever what never was one: our song together. Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, the might of the Architect and his mind-plans, the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord, established the foundation of wonders. Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof for the sons of men, Holy Creator, Maker of mankind. Then he, the Eternal Entity, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty! Westron Wynde (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 1530 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Western wind, when will you blow, bringing the drizzling rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! This World's Joy (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Winter awakens all my care as leafless trees grow bare. For now my sighs are fraught whenever it enters my thought: regarding this world's joy, how everything comes to naught. Pity Mary (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the sun passes under the wood: I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good. Now the sun passes under the tree: I rue, Mary, thy son and thee. Fowles in the Frith (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! I am of Ireland (anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am of Ireland, and of the holy realm of Ireland. Gentlefolk, I pray thee: for the sake of saintly charity, come dance with me in Ireland! Whan the turuf is thy tour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat shall be sullen worms’ to note. What help to you, then, was all your worldly hope? 2. When the turf is your tower and the grave is your bower, your pale white throat and skin worm-eaten from within ... what hope of my help then? Ech day me comëth tydinges thre (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each day I’m plagued by three doles, These gargantuan weights on my soul: First, that I must somehow exit this fen. Second, that I cannot know when. And yet it’s the third that torments me so, Because I don't know where the hell I will go! Ich have y-don al myn youth (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have done it all my youth: Often, often, and often! I have loved long and yearned zealously ... And oh what grief it has brought me! Sweet Rose of Virtue by William Dunbar [1460-1525] loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily of youthful wantonness, richest in bounty and in beauty clear and in every virtue that is held most dear? except only that you are merciless. Into your garden, today, I followed you; there I saw flowers of freshest hue, both white and red, delightful to see, and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently? yet everywhere, no odor but rue. I fear that March with his last arctic blast has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast, whose piteous death does my heart such pain that, if I could, I would compose her roots again? so comforting her bowering leaves have been. Now skruketh rose and lylie flour (anonymous Middle English lyric) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the rose and the lily skyward flower, That will bear for awhile that sweet savor: In summer, that sweet tide; There is no queen so stark in her power Nor any lady so bright in her bower That dead shall not ghostly glide by; But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side. Adam Lay Ybounden (anonymous Medieval English Lyric) loose translation by Michael R. Burch Adam lay bound, bound in a bond; Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long. And all was for an apple, an apple that he took, As clerics now find written in their book. But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been, We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen. So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus; Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!" I Sing of a Maiden (anonymous Medieval English Lyric) loose translation by Michael R. Burch I sing of a maiden That is matchless. The King of all Kings For her son she chose. He came also as still To his mother's breast As April dew Falling on the grass. He came also as still To his mother's bower As April dew Falling on the flower. He came also as still To where his mother lay As April dew Falling on the spray. Mother and maiden? Never one, but she! Well may such a lady God's mother be!
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