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I may be a total nerd, but devoting a semester to reading Chaucer in middle English has been one of the best academic decisions I have ever made. One of Chaucer's short poems, The Book of the Duchess, written to condole Chaucer's patron John of Gaunt after he lost is beloved wife Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, is among the most beautiful I have ever read. My class began to read it a year after the death of another angel, Eve Carson, UNC student body president. I'm finding it difficult to put in words, but my reading The Book of Duchess occurred at the right moment. There was something about reading this poem a year after her tragic death that somehow mirrored the reading of this poem to John of Gaunt a year after the death of Blanche. It is a poem truly timeless. Troilus and Criseyde is fantastic as well. I think everyone can identify with Troilus's love-sickness in Book I. And although they appear daunting, there is never a dull moment in The Canterbury Tales. I've even memorized the first sentence of the prologue:
Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.