Post by Blackbird on Oct 28, 2005 14:47:00 GMT -1
Sadly, this excellent offering is not one of my own - this poem comes from the Red Book of Hergest. For me, it is wonderfully evocative of the season, and gives us an understanding of how the winter season was experienced and celebrated hundreds of years back
The Calends of winter, hard is the grain;
The leaves are on the move, the plash is full
In the morning before he sets off,
Woe to him that trusts to a stranger.
The Calends of winter, the time of pleasant gossiping,
The gale and the storm keep equal pace;
It is the work of the wise to keep a secret.
The Calends of winter the stags are lean,
Yellow, the tops of birch, deserted the summer dwelling;
Woe to him who for a trifle deserves disgrace.
The Calends of winter, the tops of the branches are bent;
Uproar from the mouth of the vicious is common;
Where there is no natural gift there will be no learning.
The Calends of winter, blustering is the weather,
Unlike the beginning of summer;
Except God, there is none that divines.
The Calends of winter, gay the plumage of birds;
Short the day; loud the cuckoos;
Mercifully has the most beneficent God made them.
The Calends of winter, it is hard and dry;
Very black is the raven, quick the arrow from the bow;
At the stumbling of the old, the smile of the youth is apt to break out.
The Calends of winter, lean is the stag:
Woe to the weak! if he chafes, it will be but for a short while;
Truly better is amiability than beauty.
The Calends of winter, bare is where the heath is burnt,
The plough is in the furrow; the ox at work;
Amongst a hundred there is hardly a friend.
The Calends of winter, hard is the grain;
The leaves are on the move, the plash is full
In the morning before he sets off,
Woe to him that trusts to a stranger.
The Calends of winter, the time of pleasant gossiping,
The gale and the storm keep equal pace;
It is the work of the wise to keep a secret.
The Calends of winter the stags are lean,
Yellow, the tops of birch, deserted the summer dwelling;
Woe to him who for a trifle deserves disgrace.
The Calends of winter, the tops of the branches are bent;
Uproar from the mouth of the vicious is common;
Where there is no natural gift there will be no learning.
The Calends of winter, blustering is the weather,
Unlike the beginning of summer;
Except God, there is none that divines.
The Calends of winter, gay the plumage of birds;
Short the day; loud the cuckoos;
Mercifully has the most beneficent God made them.
The Calends of winter, it is hard and dry;
Very black is the raven, quick the arrow from the bow;
At the stumbling of the old, the smile of the youth is apt to break out.
The Calends of winter, lean is the stag:
Woe to the weak! if he chafes, it will be but for a short while;
Truly better is amiability than beauty.
The Calends of winter, bare is where the heath is burnt,
The plough is in the furrow; the ox at work;
Amongst a hundred there is hardly a friend.