When in April the sweet showers fall
    And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
    The veins are bathed in liquor of such power
    As brings about the engendering of the flower,
    When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath
    Exhales an air in every grove and heath
    Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun
    His half-course in the sight of the Ram has run,
    And the small fowl are making melody
    That sleep away the night with open eye
    (So nature pricks them and their heart engages),
    Then people long to go on pilgrimages
    And palmers long to seek the stranger strands
    Of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands.
              - Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, Prologue

Murder on the Road to Santiago

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