XXXII
By a mount that morning merrily rode he Into a forest full deep that was fearful wild, High hills on each hand and holtwoods thereunder Of hoar oaks full huge, a hundred together; The hazel and the hawthorn were all in a tangle With rough moss and rank beraggèd all over, And mány a bírd unblíthe on the bare twigs sitting Piteously piped for pain of the cold.
This gallant on Gringolet glides them beneath, Through mizzy and mire, a man full lonesome, For ’twas much on his mind lest his mass he should miss Nor see the service of that Sire, who that self-same night Of a burd was born to abye our trouble; And so sighing he said “I beseech thee, Lord, And Mary, that art mildest mother so dear— Some harbour where humbly the mass I may hearken And thy matins tomorrow meekly I ask you, And I presently pray my pater and avè and creed.”
He pray’d and still rode on, He cried for his misdeed, Then sain’d himself anon And said “Christ’s cross me speed.”