Chaucer

Once more I find myself upon this rift,
Summoned to fight a war for which I do not care.
But then I feel a gentle blowing breeze
That whispers, softly, calmly, into my ears.
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth,
Inspirèd hath in every holt and heeth,
The leaves and bushes rustled and swayed to the air,
And then she appeared to me…