No More Learning

'

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

Behold, the heedless, torpid, yearn to try

And block the insidious entry, there they lie,

Whom the herald summons urging them to rise.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

From Arcturus, the North Wind soon separates.

The star about the Pole conceals its bright rays.

Towards the east the Plough its brief journey makes.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Now, alas! It is he!

Note: The third verse suggests a summer sky in northern latitudes, say late July, when Arcturus sets in the north-west at dawn.

Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

William or Guillem IX, called The Troubador, was Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony and Count of Poitou, as William VII, between 1086, when he was aged only fifteen, and his death. Refusing to take part in the first crusade of 1098, he was one of the leaders of the minor Crusade of 1101 which was a military failure.
He was the 'first' troubadour, that is, the first recorded vernacular lyric poet, in the Occitan language. Threatened with excommunication several times for his dissolute life and challenges to Church authority, he was later reconciled. He married his 'step-daughter' Anor, to his son, later Guilhem X, and in turn their daughter Alianor (Eleanor), Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou, became Queen of France, and by her second marriage to Henry, Duke of Normandy, later Henry II, became Queen of England also. She was the mother of the Young King Henry, Richard Coeur de Lion, Geoffrey of Brittany and John Lackland.

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.