Here begins the Canterbury Tales.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur

Of which vertú engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye,

So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

We have the small birds making melodies, the chickadees at least, and the goldfinches and a few red wing blackbirds. March, however, was not a dry month. No. And we have a lot of snow not goon yete up here, although the town is pretty bare, bar a few piles from ploughing. 

We were longen to wend - not to a straunge stronde but in fact to the city and the book store - but got stopped short by illness. Oh well, it will all still be there when the Ram has run his full course. 

I love hearing this with the right pronunciation, as I still remember it from a class more than half a century ago. And I love looking at the language and wondering things like how we got from soote and swete to sweet. Do not mutter about umlaut and ablate shifts and all that. I wrote a test on that stuff, passed it and promptly erased it from my memory.

Yes, indeed. Going slightly nuts here. Waiting for the mud to stiffen up and the grader to make our road at least passable.

For those of you who were educated in a less hidebound school than mine, 

      Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

                  When April with its sweet-smelling showers        

      The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

                 Has pierced the drought of March to the root,

        And bathed every veyne in swich licour

                 And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid        

    Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

                 By which power the flower is created;

        Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

                 When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,

        Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

                 In every wood and field has breathed life into

        The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

                 The tender new leaves, and the young sun

        Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,

                 Has run half its course in Aries,

        And smale foweles maken melodye,

                 And small fowls make melody,

         That slepen al the nyght with open ye

                 Those that sleep all the night with open eyes

         (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages),

                 (So Nature incites them in their hearts),

      Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

                 Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,

        And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

                 And professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores,

       To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

                 To distant shrines, known in various lands;

        And specially from every shires ende

                 And specially from every shire's end

      Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,

                 Of England to Canterbury they travel,

         The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

                 To seek the holy blessed martyr,

        That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

                 Who helped them when they were sick.

Mind you, soote could also be 'soft', in context.