II.

Then the soft winds of summer, 516 After þe sesoun of somer wyth þe soft wynde3, Quen 3eferus syfle3 hym-self on sede3 & erbe3, beautiful are the flowers wet with dew-drops. Wela-wynne is þe wort þat woxes þer-oute. When þe donkande dewe drope3 of þe leue3, 520 To bide a blysful blusch of þe bry3t sunne. But harvest approaches soon, Bot þen hy3es heruest, & hardenes hym sone. Warne3 hym for þe wynter to wax ful rype; and drives the dust about. He dryues wyth dro3t þe dust for to ryse. 524 Fro þe face of þe folde to fly3e ful hy3e; Wroþe wynde of þe welkyn wrastele3 with þe sunne, The leaves drop off the trees, Þe leue3 lancen fro þe lynde, & ly3ten on þe grounde, the grass becomes gray, and all ripens and rots. & al grayes þe gres, þat grene wat3 ere; 528 Þenne al rype3 & rote3 þat ros vpon fyrst, & þus 3irne3 þe 3ere in 3isterdaye3 mony, Winter winds round again, & wynter wynde3 a3ayn, as þe worlde aske3 no sage. 532 Til me3el-mas mone, Wat3 cumen wyth wynter wage; and then Sir Gawayne thinks of his dread journey. Þen þenkke3 Gawan ful sone, Of his anious uyage.