When April with his showers so sweet
Has pierced the drought of March to the root,
And bathed every vein in that liquor
Whose blessed power engenders the flower;
When Zephyrus too with his sweet breath
Has quickened in every grove and heath
The tender shoots, and the young sun
His half-course in the Ram has run,
And small birds make their melody
That sleep all night with open eye, -
(So nature pricks them to lusty rage)
Then people long to go on pilgrimages -
And palmers seek out strange strands -
To distant shrines, hallowed in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shire's end
Of England, down to Canterbury they wend ...

Geoffrey Chaucer, from the 'Prologue to the Canterbury Tales'