II.

Then the soft winds of summer, 516 After þe sesoun of somer wyth þe soft wyndeȝ, Quen ȝeferus syfleȝ hym-self on sedeȝ & erbeȝ, beautiful are the flowers wet with dew-drops. Wela-wynne is þe wort þat woxes þer-oute. When þe donkande dewe dropeȝ of þe leueȝ, 520 To bide a blysful blusch of þe bryȝt sunne. But harvest approaches soon, Bot þen hyȝes heruest, & hardenes hym sone. Warneȝ hym for þe wynter to wax ful rype; and drives the dust about. He dryues wyth droȝt þe dust for to ryse. 524 Fro þe face of þe folde to flyȝe ful hyȝe; Wroþe wynde of þe welkyn wrasteleȝ with þe sunne, The leaves drop off the trees, Þe leueȝ lancen fro þe lynde, & lyȝten on þe grounde, the grass becomes gray, and all ripens and rots. & al grayes þe gres, þat grene watȝ ere; 528 Þenne al rypeȝ & roteȝ þat ros vpon fyrst, & þus ȝirneȝ þe ȝere in ȝisterdayeȝ mony, Winter winds round again, & wynter wyndeȝ aȝayn, as þe worlde askeȝ no sage. 532 Til meȝel-mas mone, Watȝ cumen wyth wynter wage; and then Sir Gawayne thinks of his dread journey. Þen þenkkeȝ Gawan ful sone, Of his anious uyage.