Spring In The Middle Ages

This guided meditation invites you to welcome the season of spring in the company of poets from the Middle Ages. Poems in Old and Middle English contemplate the return of warm weather, birdsong, and flowers, while considering the effect this season has on our minds and hearts.

Transcript

Hello friend,

Let's celebrate spring.

The world is waking from the cold,

Dark days of winter.

Snowdrops and crocuses poke their heads above the earth.

Daffodils bloom and a fresh breeze blows,

Not yet warm but full of hope and possibility.

Like us,

Those who lived in the medieval period relished the changes that came with the spring.

Today,

I invite you to meditate on this new season,

Accompanied by the voices of the past.

Before we begin,

Settle yourself into a comfortable position.

You might be seated or you might lie down.

Place your hands on your knees or gently by your sides.

Close your eyes and take three deep breaths.

Breathing in and out.

Breathing in and out.

One more time.

Breathing in and a big breath out.

I'll read three poems today,

Two in Middle English and one in Old English.

Don't worry if they don't make sense to you at first.

Let the sounds come and go.

Let the words flow around you.

You might notice any thoughts or feelings that arise.

But try to hold them lightly.

Let them go when you can and return to the sound of my voice.

Our first poem is a love lyric preserved in a 14th century manuscript housed in the British Library in London.

The poem itself may well be older than the leaves in which it is now preserved.

Here,

The speaker describes the coming of spring,

Or lenten as it was called in the Middle Ages.

Daisies and roses blossom,

Birdsong returns to the woods.

Birdsong returns to the woods.

But as the animals frolic,

The speaker considers the difficulties of finding love for himself.

Lenten is come with love to tune,

With blossoming and with brittles rune,

That all this bliss bringeth.

Daisies in these dallas note a sway of nichte gallas,

Of nichte gallas,

Which foole song singeth.

The thresher-cock him fretteth woo,

Away is her winter woe,

When wood of rove springeth.

The spool singeth fairly fale,

And writteth on her winter wale,

That all the wood ringeth.

The rose raileth here a road,

The leaves on the lichte wood waxen all with will.

The morn amandeth here a blow,

The lily is a lossum to sow,

The fennel aunts to feeleth.

Woe is this wilde dracheth,

Neeres murgeth here a macketh,

As a stream that streaketh stilleth.

Mordy meneth,

So doth morn,

Ee shot,

Ee sham,

On of thaw,

For that love that licketh eeleth.

Fae morn amandeth here a licht,

So doth the same lesson a bricht,

When briddeth singeth bremmeth.

Dow is donketh,

Fae dooneth,

De oor is whith,

Here a derner rooneth,

Dom is forth the damer.

Wormeth wardeth,

Under clodeth,

Shwin and waxen,

Wonder prodeth,

So well hath all him same.

If mey shall want weel avon,

Fith woon awayed,

And woon aforegone,

And wicht in ward beflame.

The joys of spring are often used to contrast with unhappiness elsewhere.

In the Old English poem,

The Seafarer,

Dating from perhaps a thousand years ago or more,

The speaker similarly describes the world waking up to this new season.

In this verse,

However,

The new season does not prompt thoughts of love,

Thoughts of love,

But the irresistible call to travel,

To set out on a sea voyage,

Even though the speaker knows it will be colder and lonelier than life on land.

But for him,

This voyage is a pilgrimage away from earthly joys to something more.

I will read in Old English first,

Followed by Modern English translation.

By Modern English Translation By arwas blostmon mimeth,

Virrug thagreoth,

Wongus whitligeath,

Warld onetheth.

Ealdhad yemoniath,

Mordes frusne,

Servon tosude,

Thum theyswa thanketh,

On flor wegas,

Feor yewithen.

The groves bear blossom,

Cities grow brighter,

The fields adorn themselves,

The world speeds up,

Yet all this urges forth the eager spirit of him who then desires to travel far on the sea paths.

Swylche yeat monath ye omran reordeth,

Synges sumerith weardh,

Sorge beodeth,

Bitre ymbreath thorth.

Thoth sebeor nwath,

Seafdeg sej,

Chwath at sumadreogath,

Thetha raclastath,

Weedoth legeath.

Likewise,

The cuckoo calls with boding voice,

The harbinger of summer offers but bitter sorrow in the breast.

The man who's blessed with comfort does not know what some then suffer who most widely travel the paths of exile.

For than nu min hige,

Chweorweth over shredder lochgan,

Min mod seffeth,

Nid merge flodebh.

Over swaleth ethel,

Chweorweth weedebh,

Eorwen sheatheth,

Cymeth efto mey,

Yithleth.

Even now my heart journeys beyond its confines and my thoughts.

Over the sea,

Across the whale's homeland,

They travel afar,

The regions of the earth,

And then come back to me with greed and longing.

Ieleth an fleogath,

Chweoreth on chwealwey,

Reddur mwernum over holmy yelagl,

For than me hathran syn drichnes dremaths,

Thorneth ys deadelifh lana an londr.

The cuckoo cries,

Incites the eager breast onto the whale's roads,

Irresistibly over the wide expanses of the sea,

For the joys of the Lord mean more to me than this dead transitory life on land.

We'll close with another lyric from the 14th century Harley Manuscript in the British Library.

Here again spring ushers in birdsong and natural beauty,

But in this poem the speaker is sick with love.

He calls to his sweetheart,

His swaeter lermon as she is called,

Asking for her to return his affection.

As he wanders the blossoming landscape,

He begs for one word,

One kiss,

Or one look from his love.

When the nichte gale singes,

The waders waxen greyne,

Life and grass and blossom springes,

In avril he weyne,

And love is to min hert gone,

With one asperis okene,

Nichte in dey mi blode drinkes,

Mi hert deyth miteyne.

Each have loved all this year,

But he may love no more,

Each have sicked moniesy,

Gleyman,

For thine oar.

Mayne is love never thine air,

And that may rueith soar,

Swaeter leyman,

Fench on me,

Each have loved thee oar.

Swaeter leyman,

He prayeth aye,

Of love one aspage,

Queer he live in world so weed,

Oar the nur he sage.

With thee love,

Me swaeter ley off,

Me bliss thou michte veg,

A swaeter cause of thee amuth,

Michte be me lech.

Swaeter leyman,

He prayeth aye,

Of love a bayne,

Yef thou may loveth,

As a man sayeth,

Leyman,

As he wayne,

And yef it thee wille bay,

Thou look that it be sayne,

So muchily thing upon a thay,

That all he waxeth grayne.

Between a Lincoln and Lindesay,

Northampton and a London,

Nay wot he non so fair a mey,

As ye go forth reboonde.

Swaeter leyman,

He prayeth aye,

Thou loveth me a stunde,

Ye wolle moan a me a song,

On one that is yondy longe.

What does the arrival of spring mean to you?

What secret desires or deep-seated longings does it invite you to consider?

How will you honour the changing of the seasons this year?

Take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.

Begin to notice the sounds around you.

Notice the feeling of your legs on the chair or on a cushion.

Notice the light that plays on your eyelids.

When you're ready,

Bring some movement into your body.

Wiggle your fingers.

Wiggle your toes.

Perhaps roll your shoulders.

Stretch up your arms.

And when you're ready,

Open your eyes to this new spring day.

Thank you for meditating with me today.

Reviews

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but found the ancient languages soothing.