No More Learning

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.

Since there flowered the Dry Rod,

Or from Adam sprang nephew and uncle;

Such true love as that which my heart enters

Has never, I think, existed in body or soul:

Wherever she is, abroad or in some chamber,

My heart can't part from her more than a nail.

So clings to her, is fixed as with a nail,

My heart, as the bark cleaves to the rod,

She is of joy my tower, palace, chamber;

And I love her more than brother, or uncle:

And twice the joy in Paradise for my soul,

If any man there through true loving enters.

Arnaut sends out his song of nail and uncle,

For her joy, who arms him with rod, his soul,

His Desire, that with worth her chamber enters.

Notes: Arnaut here invents the sestina, with its fixed set of words ending the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; numbering the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the following stanzas appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and 246531. These six rhymes then appear in the tercet as well.

The manuscript reading of the last two lines has proved contentious, a grat de lieis que de sa vergua l'arma, son Dezirat, c'ab pretz en cambra intra is assumed. The subject of the verb 'enters' is then ambiguous. For 'uncle' read guardian, or keeper, throughout.