To seen this flour agein the sonnė sprede,
When hit uprysith erly by the morwe;
That blisful sightė softneth all my sorwė[7]....
And whan that hit is eve, I rennė blyve,[8]
As soon as evere the sonnė ginneth weste,
To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste,
For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse!...
Geoffrey Chaucer