From Piers Plowman by William Langland
One summer season when the sun was still soft,
I set off like a sheep in a shaggy woollen smock,
The unholy habit of a wandering hermit,
And went seeking wonders in the wide, wide world.
And one morning in May on the Malvern Hills
I witnessed a wonder which I warrant was magic.
Quite weary with walking I wanted to rest
On a broad grassy bank beside a small brook.
As I lay down I leant and looked in the water,
Which babbled so sweetly I soon fell asleep.
And sleeping I saw the strangest of dreams:
That I wandered a wilderness, not knowing where,
And high in the east, looking up at the sun,
Saw a tower on a toft, built sturdy and true;
To the west, further down, were a dale and a dungeon
With deep, dark ditches that I gazed on with dread.
Translation © 2014 Peter Sutton
