No More Learning

He predeceased his father, and so never wielded power, dying of dysentery while on campaign in the Limousin.

Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)

According to the troubadour Uc de Saint Circ, Bernart was the son of a baker at the castle of Ventadour or Ventadorn, in the Correze. His first patron was Viscount Eble III of Ventadorn. He composed his first poems for his patron's wife, Marguerite de Turenne. Uc de Saint Circ has him ultimately withdrawing to the Cistercian abbey of Dalon and dying there.

'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,

first singing and then silent,

content with the final sweetness that sates her. '

Dante - Paradiso XX:73-75
Can vei la lauzeta mover

When I see the lark display

His wings with joy against the day,

Forgetting, fold then fall away,

As sweetness to his heart makes way,

Such great envy then invades

My mind: I see the rest take fire,

And marvel at it, for no way

Can my heart turn from its desire.

Ah, I so dearly wished to know

Of love, yet so little learn,

For I cannot keep from loving her

Who will not have me, though I burn.

She stole my heart, and all of me,

And she herself, and worlds apart;

Lacking herself, now nothing's left

But longing and the willing heart.

For 'I' has no power over 'I'

Nor has had since the day I know

I let myself gaze in her eye,

The mirror that pleased me so.

Mirror, now I'm mirrored in you,

Profound sighs are killing me,

I lost myself as he did too

Narcissus gazing in the deep.

Of every lady I despair!

And in them I can place no trust!

Those I once would seek to cheer

Leave them cheerless now I must.
Seeing her then who won't have me,

She who destroys me and confounds,

I doubt them all and can't believe,

Knowing them other than they're found.

My lady shows herself, not to my good,

A woman indeed, scorns my behest,

Since she wishes not what she should

But what's forbidden her finds best.

Now I'm fallen from all grace,

I've done well on the asses' bridge!

And don't know why I'm in disgrace,

Except I've asked a world too much.

Mercy's lost, and gone from sight

And now I can retrieve it not.

Since she who owns to it of right

Has none to give, and where's it sought?

How little it seems to those who see -

What would she want with me poor wretch? -

That without her nothing's here for me,

She lets me die who've no help left.

Since with my lady there's no use

In prayers, her pity, or pleading law,

Nor is she pleased at the news

I love her: then I'll say no more,

And so depart and swear it's done!

I'm dead: by death I'll answer her,

And off I'll go: she'll see me gone,

To wretched exile, who knows where?

Tristram, none will hear of me:

Off I'll go, who knows where?

I'll sing no more, resigned I'll be,

And banish joy and love of her.

Note: Pound adapts and utilises phrases from verse 1, 'qual cor mi vai: that goes to my heart' at the start of Canto XCI; 'es laissa cader: lets fall' and 'de joi sas alas: with joy, its wings' in Notes for Canto CXVII et seq.

Tant ai mo cor ple de joya

So full is my heart of joy now,

All is changed for me.

Flowering red, white, and yellow,

The winter seems to be,

For, with the wind and rain, so

My fortune's bright I see,

My songs they rise, and grow

My worth proportionately.

Such love in my heart I find,

Such joy and sweetness mine,

Ice turns to flowers fine

And snow to greenery.