And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages)

I'm always reminded of Chaucer this time of year when the mockingbirds that nest in the maple tree in the front yard start hollering all night. They're entertaining to listen to during the day, because they sound like a voice-activated tape recorder that records one birdsong after another. But at night, when you're about to drop off to sleep and one of those birds lets go, you could cheerfully shoot it. F has felt quite murderous on occasion because they're right outside her window.


Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature 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.