Thou goest homë to thine house anon
And all so dombe as any stone,
Thou sittest at another bokë
Till fully dazed is thy lokë.
But though we speak of Chaucer as bookish and scholarly, it must not be supposed that he aimed at, or possessed the nice critical discernment, with respect to the literary work of others, which we now associate with highest scholarly attainments; it may well happen that his bookish allusions are not always “by the letter,” or that he may misquote, or strain a point in interpretation. He lived before the days of exegetical niceties. He is attracted by large effects; he searches for what may kindle his enthusiasms, and put him upon his own trail of song. Books were nothing to him if they did not bring illumination; where he could snatch that, he burrowed—but always rather toward the light than toward the depths. He makes honey out of coarse flowers; not so sure always—nor much caring to be sure—of the name and habitudes of the plants he rifles. He stole not for the theft’s sake, but for the honey’s sake; and he read not for cumulation of special knowledges, but to fertilize and quicken his own spontaneities.
Nor was this poet ever so shapen to close study, but the woods or the birds or the flowers of a summery day would take the bend from his back, and straighten him for a march into the fields:
——There is gamë none,
That from my bookës maketh me to gone,
Save certainly whan that the month of Maie
Is comen, and that I heare the foulës sing,