Beside the saintly woman of Norwich,
an anchorite without pretense,
a prophet of startling revelations,
my Wife of Bath and Madame Eglantine,
my courteous knight and squire do pale.
Confessor to many, her wisdom shared
beside the river through embroidered scrim—
I wonder: what if I met her before my tales
were spawned, my pen drawn to picture
one so fine among my raucous pilgrims?
Could I invent an anecdote to capture
her spirit and grace? Should one so holy
abandon her cell for Canterbury,
I fear my skill would surely falter.