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 hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
 Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
 Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.