When in April the sweet showers fall That pierce March's drought to the root and all And bathed every vein in liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has with his sweet breath, Filled again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and leaves, and the young sun His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage) Then folk do long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in distant lands.