A gardyn saw I, ful of blosmy bowes
Upon a ryver, in a grene mede,
There as swetnesse everemore inow is,
With floures whyte, blewe, yelwe, and rede,
And colde welle-stremes, nothyng dede,
That swymmen ful of smale fishes lighte,
With fynnes rede and skales sylver bryghte.
On every bow the bryddes herde I synge, With voys of aungel in here armonye; Some busied hem hir bryddes forth to brynge; The litel conyes to here pley gonne hye. And ferther al aboute I gan espye The dredful ro, the buk, the hert and hynde, Squyrels, and bestes smale of gentil kynde.Of instruments of strenges in acord Herde I so pleye a ravyshyng swetnesse, That God, that makere is of al and lord, Ne herde nevere beter, as I gesse. Therwith a wynd, unnethe it myghte be lesse, Made in the leves grene a noyse softe Acordaunt to the foules songe alofte.Th'air of that place so attempre was That nevere was grevaunce of hot ne cold. Ther wex ek every holsom spice and gras; No man may there waxe sek ne old; Yit was there joye more a thousandfold Than man can telle; ne nevere wolde it nyghte, But ay cler day to any mannes syghte.
(Chaucer. G, Parliament of Fowls)