No More Learning

. .

Then he hid himself in the refining fire. '

Dante - Purgatorio XXVI:142-144
I see scarlet; green, blue, white, yellow

Garden, close, hill, valley and field,

And songs of birds echo and ring

In sweet accord, at evening and dawn:

They urge my heart to depict in song

Such a flower that its fruit will be amour,

And joy the seed, and the scent a foil to sadness.

The fire of Love burns in my thoughts so

That desire, always sweet and deep,

And its pains a certain savour bring,

And gentler its flame the more the passion:

For Love requires his friends to belong

To truth, frankness, faith, mercy and more,

For, at his court, pride fails while flattery's harmless.

I'm not altered by time and place though

Or what fate, advice, good or bad, may yield;

And if I give you the lie in anything

Never let her look on me night or morn,

She's in my heart, day-long and night-long,

Whom I'd not wish to lack (for false is the call)

On those shores where Alexander once proved ruthless.

Often my boredom without her I show

And I wish to tell, not leave concealed,

Of her at least some part of this thing,

Since my heart never wavers or is torn:

Since of aught else I never think for long,

Since of what's good I know she's best of all,

Seen in my heart, in Puglia or Flanders' fastness.

I'd wish simply to be her cook and, lo,

Thus receive such wages in that field

I'd live more than twenty years a king,

She makes me so happy, never forlorn:

Such a fool am I: for what do I long?

For I want none of those riches, not all

That Meander and Tigris enclose with all their vastness.

Amongst others I feign the status quo,

While the day seems tedium congealed:

And it grieves me the God of Everything

Won't let me cut short the time I mourn,

Since lovers languish, waiting over-long:

Moon and Sun your course begins to pall!

It grieves me your light so seldom yields to blackness.

Now go to her, my song, to her I belong,

For Arnaut cannot show her treasures all,

Much greater wit he'd need to reveal her richness.

Note: Pound utilises an issue of translation regarding the last line of verse 1, E jois le grans, e l'olors d'enoi gandres in Canto XX.

Anc ieu non l'aic, mas elha m'a

I have him not, yet he has me

Forever in his power, Amor,

And makes me sad, bright: wise, a fool,

Like one who can no way retreat.

He's no defence who loves indeed,

He obeys Love's decree

For he serves and woos her, she,

So I'll await | like fate

My gracious fee

Should it come to me.
I say little of what's inside me,

I tremble lest I shake with fear;

Tongue may feign, but heart wills too

That which it dwells on sadly:

So I languish, but silently,

For as totally

As earth's bordered by sea

None I may state | of late

Compares equally

To that coveted she.

I know her worth so certainly

That I can no way turn elsewhere;

Which simply makes my poor heart brood,

When sun sets or rises swiftly:

I dare not say who inflames me;

My heart burns me

But my eyes are fed surely,

To contemplate | will sate,

That alone can ease me:

What keeps me alive, now see!

He's a fool who in loose speech

Claims his pains with joy compare,

For slanderers, whom God makes fools,

Never such fancy language seek:

One whispers while another shrieks,

Till Love retreats

That else would be complete;

I obfuscate | debate,

While they bully,

And still love loyally.

But health and joy now fill me

With pleasure that rises there;

Yet from my throat won't issue

For fear she may prove angry,

Since the flame of it yet I feel,

Of Love, that orders me

Never my heart to reveal,

Oft a mistake | fears make,

Loves are lost, not few,

Through poor security.

How many songs light and easy

I'd have made if she would succour

She who gives me joy and takes it,

Now I'm glad, now I'm unhappy,

Because to her will she binds me;

Yet it will make never a plea,

My heart, nor will seek to flee,

But freely I'll state | meets fate:

Should she forget me,

Then fled is mercy.

Tell Miels-de-Ben, if she rate

This fair melody,

Arnaut keeps memory.

Note: Regarding Miels-de-Ben, Better-than-Good, Arnaut's vida says: Et amet una auta dompna de Gascoigna, moiller d'En Guillem de Buonvila, mas non fo crezut qez anc la dompna li fezes plazer en dreich d'amor. 'And he loved a noble woman of Gascony, wife of Lord Guillem de Buonvila, but it was not believed that she ever pleased him with regard to the rights of love. ' Possibly this poem was addressed to her.

Lo ferm voler qu'el cor m'intra

The firm desire that in my heart enters

Can't be torn away by beak or nail

Of slanderer, who'll by cursing lose his soul,

And since I don't dare strike with branch or rod,

Secretly, at least, where I'll have no uncle,

I'll take my joy, in orchard or in chamber.

When I bring to mind that chamber

Where I know to my cost no man enters -

More hostile they are to me than brother, uncle -

No part of me but shivers, to my very nail,

More than a little child that sees the rod,

Such my fear of being hers too much in soul.

Would I were hers in body, and not in soul,

And she admitted me secretly to her chamber!

For it wounds my heart more than blow from rod,

That where she is her servant never enters.

I would be close to her like flesh to nail,

And not heed the warning of friend or uncle.

Never have I loved sister of my uncle

Longer or more deeply, by my soul,

For, as close as is the finger to the nail,

If she pleased, would I be to her chamber.

More can love bend, that in my heart enters,

Me to its will, than the strong some frail rod.