The Ides of June
by Sarah Bernstein
Biholde! Thre dayes agoon –
Twas the Ides of June!
The dayes nou are longe, warme is the sonne,
And muchel flours in my gardin blosmen!
Myn yen loven the colours, my nose the smell,
But myn herte listeth best the tales hir tell.
Enterlacen with my New Dawn Rose
Is the clematis my dochter chose
The erste summer we dwelt at this hous;
Thilke clematis lavender is.
Sithe she were yong, onli a girle,
She and ich wolde plaunt flours,
Everich yere on Mooder’s Daye;
Eek dide we plaunt a memorie.
The red rose which to my Mock Orange recheth
My fader fifti years ago planteth.
My fader did shape his garden as might a scoler;
He rede and lere muche aboute horticulture.
Thilke rose he chose to plaunte on the lane,
Yet for this entencioun, can I nat explain,
The chois of slik a straunge forme,
For the branches pricken, and rechen asonder,
Past thilke rose noon wighte desireth to wander.
But sith I removed hit to my gardin,
Plaunted waye in the bak,blissful haveth hit ben.
And blissful have I also ben, seinge my fader,
Ai thilke rose blosmeth in shades of madere.
A ful fetis flour in proper governaunce,
My patrimoyne oueth now avaunce.
From my fader have ich the Rose gentil,
And from my mooder, the humble dayeseye.
She yeven hit me fele yeres agoon,
When in my garden noght were wexen.
The dayeseye findeth spaces bar
And maketh hir home there.
Muchel blosmen standen on this sely flour
And hir covenable and freshe snou-wite colour.
Al through the yerd do ich my mooder finde,
In the humble dayeseye, she abideth in minde.
The Meadow Rue hath no memorie to be told,
But on the Ides of June hit is a delit to biholde.
Hit be a sely native flour, hit hath no care,
Hit plaunteth hit-selfe everywhere.
Maugree hire name, hit hath no regret:
Hire fetherlich blooms runneth riot
Amidst the roses’propre gentillesse.
And yet, somtyme ich liste hit alderbest.
Ich wil my gardin florisheth al the yere
As it doth in June, beaute so faire;
And with my kinrede and these blosmen,
Knotted and to memorie drawen.
But other-while the sighte of Ides of June
Is but a glimsinge, and nat an affiaunce.