Chaucer

An old man in a lodge within a park; 
    The chamber walls depicted all around 
    With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, 
    And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, 
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark 
    Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; 
    He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, 
    Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
    The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
    Made beautiful with song; and as I read 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
    Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
    Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.