Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting on the Daily Poems. It takes a few months to work backward from twentieth century poems to some of the earliest English verse. Dating to the year 1250 or so, today's poem is the last from this round; tomorrow, we will swing back to the twentieth century and work backwards again. Please keep commenting, sharing, and suggesting other poems and poets to include.
How death comes
Wanne mine eyhnen misten,
And mine heren sissen,
And my nose coldet,
And my tunge foldet,
And my rude slaket,
And mine lippes blaken,
And my muth grennet,
And my spotel rennet,
And mine her riset,
And mine herte griset,
And mine honden bivien,
And mine fet stivien –
All to late! all to late!
Wanne the bere is ate gate.
When my eyes get misty, and my ears are full of hissing, and my nose gets cold, and my tongue folds, and my face goes slack, and my lips blacken, ana my mouth grins, and my spittle runs, and my hair rises, and my heart trembles, and my hands shake, and my feet stiffen – all too late! When the bier is at the gate.
Thanne I schel flutte,
From bedde to flore,
From flore to here,
From here to bere,
From bere to putte,
And the putt fordut.
Thanne lyd mine hus uppe mine nose.
Of al this world ne give I it a pese!
Then I shall pass from bed to floor, from floor to shroud, from shroud to bier, from bier to grave, and the grave will be closed up. Then my house rests on my nose. I don’t care one jot for the whole world.
– from Medieval English Lyrics
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