When that April’s sweet showers, do refute

The drought of March, piercing it to the root,

Bathing leafy veins with liquor of power

Whose virtue will engender the sweet flower.

When Zephyr also, with his soft, warm breath,

Inspires both holt and heath from Winter’s death,

And new crops yielding to the bright young sun

That half-way through the course of Ram has run,

And young birds awaken from sleep filled night

With soft sweet songs that sets the world to right.

And so inspires all nature with courage

(And folk who long to go on pilgrimage)

To seek from Palmers, tales of strange strands

And the holy shrines found in other lands;

And certain sure, from every shires end

Of England, to Canterbury they wend

To seek the blessed, holy martyr’s shrine,

He who helped and cured them all, kith and kine.

And so it befell, that season, one day

At the Tabard In Southwark, as I lay

Ready to begin my own pilgrimage

To Canterbury, devout in homage.

That very night, to this same hostelry

Twenty-nine persons of mixed company,

Independent souls, who had chanced to fall

In fellowship, they being pilgrims all,

That on to Canterbury now would ride.

The Tabard’s rooms and stables being wide,

So we were well eased, living off the best.

And, as soon as the sun had gone to rest,

I had spoken to them all, one by one

And of the journey I was bent upon.

And we all made plans for an early rise

To take the road together in that wise.

Nevertheless, while I have time and space,

Before I venture further on this case,

It seems to me I should have good reason

To tell you of each one’s state and season

One by one as they first appeared to me,

Who they were, their estate and their degree;

Accoutrements and raiments they were in,

And therefore, with a Knight, I will begin.