Poems from a reading. Suggested by the Minnesota poet, Michael Dennis Browne.
Middle English original[4] English modernisation[5]
I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless,
King of all kings
For her son she chose.
He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.
He came as still
Where his mother was
As dew in April
That falls on the grass.
He cam also stylle
to his moderes bowr
as dew in aprille,
þat fallyt on þe flour.
He came as still
To his mother's bower
As dew in April
That falls on the flower.
He cam also stylle
þer his moder lay
as dew in Aprille,
þat fallyt on þe spray.;
He came as still
Where his mother lay
As dew in April
That falls on the spray.
Moder & mayden
was neuer non but che –
wel may swych a lady
Godes moder be.
Mother and maiden
There was never, ever one but she;
Well may such a lady
God's mother be.
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910.
101. The Cherry-Tree Carol
i
I
JOSEPH was an old man,
And an old man was he,
When he wedded Mary
In the land of Galilee.
II
Joseph and Mary walk’d 5
Through an orchard good,
Where was cherries and berries
So red as any blood.
III
Joseph and Mary walk’d
Through an orchard green, 10
Where was berries and cherries
As thick as might be seen.
IV
O then bespoke Mary,
So meek and so mild,
‘Pluck me one cherry, Joseph, 15
For I am with child.’
V
O then bespoke Joseph
With words so unkind,
‘Let him pluck thee a cherry
That brought thee with child.’ 20
VI
O then bespoke the babe
Within his mother’s womb,
‘Bow down then the tallest tree
For my mother to have some.’
VII
Then bow’d down the highest tree 25
Unto his mother’s hand:
Then she cried, ‘See, Joseph,
I have cherries at command!’
VIII
O then bespake Joseph—
‘I have done Mary wrong; 30
But cheer up, my dearest,
And be not cast down.
IX
‘O eat your cherries, Mary,
O eat your cherries now;
O eat your cherries, Mary, 35
That grow upon the bough.’
X
Then Mary pluck’d a cherry
As red as the blood;
Then Mary went home
With her heavy load. 40
ii
XI
As Joseph was a-walking,
He heard an angel sing:
‘This night shall be born
Our heavenly King.
XII
‘He neither shall be born 45
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox’s stall.
XIII
‘He neither shall be clothéd
In purple nor in pall, 50
But all in fair linen,
As were babies all.
XIV
‘He neither shall be rock’d
In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle 55
That rocks on the mould.
XV
He neither shall be christen’d
In white wine nor red,
But with fair spring water
With which we were christenéd. 60
iii
XVI
Then Mary took her young son
And set him on her knee;
‘I pray thee now, dear child,
Tell how this world shall be.’—
XVII
‘O I shall be as dead, mother, 65
As the stones in the wall;
O the stones in the street, mother,
Shall mourn for me all.
XVIII
‘And upon a Wednesday
My vow I will make, 70
And upon Good Friday
My death I will take.
XIX
‘Upon Easter-day, mother,
My uprising shall be;
O the sun and the moon, mother, 75
Shall both rise with me!’
“I believe in the sun when it isn’t shining, I believe in love even when I don’t feel it. I believe in God even when He's silent.”
– Found scratched on a wall in a concentration camp.
To Tanya at Christmas
by Wendell Berry
Forgive me, my delight,
that grief and loneliness
have kept me. Though I come
to you in darkness, you are
companion of the light
that rises on all I know.
In the long night of the year
and of the spirit, God’s birth
is met with simple noise.
Deaf and blind in division,
I reach, and do not find.
You show the gentler way:
We come to good by love;
our words must be made flesh.
And flesh must be made word
at last, our lives rise
in speech to our children’s tongues.
They will tell how we once stood
together here, two trees
whose lives in annual sheddings
made their way into this ground,
whose bodies turned to earth
and song. This song will tell
how old love sweetens the fields.
