The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.

The woman of the roe, she hath wished to hath but something,
Stumbled and fell low, for some life’s more, is stumbling.

But as she gathered quick and made for her future love, quiche-pie,
Came attracted-too, her morning dew, a man who made her sigh!

He owned but just a farm, some animals or such,
Not much else but kind his touch and here a fellow once yoked too much,

Of beauty’s graceful arm…not the beauty of his farm,
He sold it all upon heart’s fall and bought her one fair ring!
And she a dove, did fall in love; her child years still bearing.

Once ready to wed she doth had said;

“My early years spent erring,”
“But came at last to change my past and seen me for my caring.”
“I love this man, this farmer-fellow, the one at which I’m staring!”

The priest he asked, “What are thine names?”

And both of them stuck glaring…
For neither knew, though love was true, they replied;

*“I think tis time for fair rings!”