Geoffrey Chaucer Canterbury Tales translation

These are modern English translations of poems written in Middle English by Geoffrey Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales: General Prologue by Geoffrey Chaucer translation by Michael R. Burch When April with her sweet showers has pierced the drought of March to the root, bathing the vines’ veins in such nectar that even sweeter flowers are engendered; and when the West Wind with his fragrant breath has inspired life in every grove’s and glade’s greenling leaves; and when the young Sun has run half his course in Aries the Ram; and while small birds make melodies after sleeping all night with open eyes because Nature pierces them so, to their hearts? then people long to go on pilgrimages and palmers to seek strange lands ... Welcome, Summer by Geoffrey Chaucer translation by Michael R. Burch Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft, the songbirds sing your praises together! Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather. We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff, since love’s in the air, and also in the heather, whenever we find such blissful warmth, together. Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. To Rosemounde: A Ballade by Geoffrey Chaucer translation by Michael R. Burch Madame, you’re a shrine to loveliness And as world-encircling as trade’s duties. For your eyes shine like glorious crystals And your round cheeks like rubies. Therefore you’re so merry and so jocund That at a revel, when that I see you dance, You become an ointment to my wound, Though you offer me no dalliance. For though I weep huge buckets of warm tears, Still woe cannot confound my heart. For your seemly voice, so delicately pronounced, Make my thoughts abound with bliss, even apart. So courteously I go, by your love bound, So that I say to myself, in true penance, "Suffer me to love you Rosemounde; Though you offer me no dalliance.” Never was a pike so sauce-immersed As I, in love, am now enmeshed and wounded. For which I often, of myself, divine That I am truly Tristam the Second. My love may not grow cold, nor numb, I burn in an amorous pleasance. Do as you will, and I will be your thrall, Though you offer me no dalliance. Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, April, March, flower, wind, life, sun, birds