No More Learning

Ab la dolchor del temps novel

Out of the sweetness of the spring,

The branches leaf, the small birds sing,

Each one chanting in its own speech,

Forming the verse of its new song,

Then is it good a man should reach

For that for which he most does long.

From finest sweetest place I see

No messenger, no word for me,

So my heart can't laugh or rest,

And I don't dare try my hand,

Until I know, and can attest,

That all things are as I demand.

This love of ours it seems to be

Like a twig on a hawthorn tree

That on the tree trembles there

All night, in rain and frost it grieves,

Till morning, when the rays appear

Among the branches and the leaves.

So the memory of that dawn to me

When we ended our hostility,

And a most precious gift she gave,

Her loving friendship and her ring:

Let me live long enough, I pray,

Beneath her cloak my hand to bring.

I've no fear that tongues too free

Might part me from Sweet Company,

I know with words how they can stray

In gossip, yet that's a fact of life:

No matter if others boast of love,

We have the loaf, we have the knife!

Note: Pound quotes the phrase 'Ab la dolchor' at the start of Canto XCI.

Farai un vers de dreyt nien

I've made a song devoid of sense:

It's not of me or other men

Of love or being young again,

Or other course,

Rather in sleep I found it when

Astride my horse.

I know not what hour I was born:

I'm not happy nor yet forlorn,

I'm no stranger yet not well-worn,

Powerless I,

Who was by fairies left one morn,

On some hill high.

I can't tell whether I'm awake

Or I'm asleep, unless men say.

It almost makes my poor heart break

With every sigh:

Not worth a mouse though, my heart-ache,

Saint Martial, fie!

I'm ill, I'm afraid of dying;

But of what I hear know nothing;

I'd call a doctor for his learning,

But which, say I?

He's a good doctor if I'm improving,

Not, if I die.

I've a lover, but who is she?

She, by my faith, I never could see;

Nothing she did to hurt or please,

So what, say I?

In my house, no French or Norman

Shall ever lie.
I never saw her, yet love her true,

She never was faithful or untrue;

I do well when she's not in view,

Not worth a cry,

I know a nobler, fairer too

To any eye.

I've made the verse, don't know for who;

I'll send it on to someone new,

Who'll send it on towards Anjou,

Or somewhere nigh,

So its counter-key from his casket he'll

Send, by and by.

Note: The last two lines remain perplexing, but suggest that Guillaume was inviting a similarly ironic song, a counter or duplicate, in reply.

Pus vezem de novelh florir

Since we see, fresh flowers blowing

Field and meadow greenly glowing,

Stream and fountain crystal flowing

Fair wind and breeze,

It's right each man should live bestowing

Joy as he please.

Of love I'll speak nothing but good.

Why've I not had all that I could?

Likely I've had all that I should;

For readily,

It grants joy to one who's understood

Love's boundary.

It's been the same all of my days,

I've had no joy of love, always,

Too late now to change my ways;

For knowingly

I've done much of which my heart says:

'That's nullity. '

For this reason I win less pleasure:

What I can't have I always treasure;

And yet the saying proves true forever:

For certainly:

'To good heart comes good luck in measure' -

Suffer joyfully!

You will never prove faithful to

Love, unless you're submissive too,

And to neighbours and strangers you

Act quite humbly,

And to all who live within its view

Obediently.

Obedience we must ever show,

To others, if we'd love, and so

It's fitting that from us should flow

True courtesy;

We must not speak at court as though

Born vilely.

This verse I'll say to you is worth

More if you'll comprehend it first,

And praise the words, I gave them birth

Consistently,

I too will praise, as finest on earth,

Its melody.

My Stephen, though here I keep my berth,

There presently,

I trust you'll read this, and of its worth

Give guarantee.

Mout jauzens me prenc en amar

Great the joy that I take in love,

A joy where I can take my ease,

And then in joy turn as I please,

Once more with the best I move,

For I am honoured, she's above

The best that man can hear or see.

I, as you know, small credit take,

Nor for myself claim any power,

Yet if ever a joy should flower,

This one should, and overtake

All others, Earth from shadows wake

Like the sun in a gloomy hour.

No man can fashion such a thing,

By no wish of his, no desire,

Nor by thought or dream aspire

To such joy, as she will bring,

All year I could her praises sing

And not tell all before I tire.