THE year has turned the corner,
Cold June is with the dead,
And Spring, the singing artist,
Is mixing gold and red.
The red is meant for roses,
Rich roses, brave and bold;
The gold is for the wattle —
'Tis delicate, pale gold.
The Sun, grown tired of exile,
Comes marching south again;
'Tis he that stays the west wind
That chills the hearts of men.
There shall be frond and feather,
Glad ways of greenery,
When Spring unveils her painting
For all the world to see.
Oh, red 'twill be and golden,
That canvas of the South:
* * * * *
The gold shall be a girl's hair,
The red shall be her mouth.
Little is known about Robert Henryson's life, who was a very well-known Scottish author much admired by his contemporories (often described as the 'greatest' Scottish medieval author); who wrote in middle-scots in the second half of the fifteenth century, and mainly during the reign of James III. He 'possibly' attended...
Festlig bredte sig Faklernes Glands fra kneisende Høisal
I den dæmrende Nat, da Ikarios, Høvding i Sparta,
Fæsted sin Datter bort, den yndigtrødmende Jomfru,
Penelopeia med hviden Slør til Drotten Odysseus.
Hundrede Harper klang i den kølige Nat, medens Maanen
Iled med Jomfrugang i den...