Life and Existence

This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passing to and fro. Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.

This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passing to and fro. Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.

What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any compaignye.

What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any compaignye.

But Cristes loore and his apostles twelve He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.

His studie was but litel on the Bible.

And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open yë, (So priketh hem nature in hit corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with youre age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.

Ye, fare wel al the snow of ferne yere! 6

For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.

For of fortunes sharpe adversitee The worste kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.

For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe Folowen ful often a myrie someris day.

Til crowes feet be growen under youre yë.

Nature, the vicaire of the almyghty lorde.

As round as appil was his face.

For nakid as a worm was she.

Lord Jesu, blessed Pelican. 4

Thus Angels’ Bread is made The Bread of man today: The Living Bread from Heaven With figures doth away: O wondrous gift indeed! The poor and lowly may Upon their Lord and Master feed. 2

O saving Victim, opening wide The gate of heaven to man below, Our foes press on from every side, Thine aid supply, Thy strength bestow. 3

Down in adoration falling, Lo! the sacred Host we hail; Lo! o’er ancient forms departing, Newer rites of grace prevail; Faith for all defects supplying, Where the feeble senses fail.

Sing, my tongue, the Savior’s glory, Of His Flesh the mystery sing; Of the Blood, all price exceeding, Shed by our immortal King. 1

Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus. 4 It brought me Tears, and I remembered how often together We ran the sun down with talk… somewhere You’ve long been dust, my Halicarnassian friend. But your Nightingales live on. Though the Deathworld Claws at everything, it will not touch them. 3

You’re 2 walking by the tomb of Battiades, Who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy Laughter at the right moment, over the wine.

Who knows whether living is dying, and breathing Is eating, and sleeping is a wool blanket?