I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope/ For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,/ For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith/ But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
[T.S. Eliot]

I’m reading Chaucer for my class on Christianity and Tragedy. A wonderful person, inspired by this response to Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” has written this poem, which is hilarious particularly if you’ve read any Chaucer [for a sample, see here: in which the drunk miller from the Canterbury tales interrupts the monk to tell a raunchy story].

XIII Wayes of Regardinge a Litel Woolen Hatte

a poeme by Galfridus Chaucer

I

Amonge XX busye customes deskes
The onlye thinge nat movinge
Was my litel woolen hatte

II

Ich was of three myndes
Lyke a haberdassheres stalle
On the which do hange III litel woolen hattes

III

My woolen hatte flewe off yn the wynde,
Alack! That hatte was ful wel expensif.

IV

A gentil and a churl
Are one.
A gentil and a churl and a litel woolen hatte
Are one.

V

Ich ne knowe nat which to prefer,
The beautee of sentence
Or the beautee of solaas,
The litel woolen hatte being put on
Or just aftir.

VI

Isekeles did fille the greate wyndow
Wyth glas rough and ungentil.
The shadwe of the woolen hatte
Dyd crosse yt, hider and thider.
The hattes wearer
Traced yn the frost
A vers aboute a kankedort.

VII

O thin men of the Guildhall
Wherfor thynke ye upon golden hattes?
Marken ye nat how the litel woolen hatte
Suited ys ful wel
For a cold daye?

VIII

Ich knowe of noble romaunces
And fayre, delitable vers yn heigh style,
Yet eke wel Ich knowe
That the litel woolen hatte ys woven up
Yn what Ich knowe.

IX

Whanne the litel woolen hatte was loste,
Yt marked the beginninge
Of anothir chidinge by Philippa.

X

At the sighte of litel woolen hattes
On the heades of tale-telling pilgrims
Even John Gower
Wolde crye out sharplye.

XI

He walkid alle arounde London
Yn uncomfortable shoon
Oones, a great thirste took hym
Yn that he mistook
The shadwe of hys woolen hatte
For a barrel of ale.

XII

The river ys movinge
Let nat the hatte falle off of the syde of the ferryboate.

XIII

Yt was Aprille alle afternoon
And ther felle soote shoures
To percen the droghte.
The woolen hatte
Sat upon myn heade.