No More Learning

My song take flight,

present yourself to her sweetly,

but for her might

Arnaut might strive more lightly.

Douz braitz e critz

Sweet tweet and cry

Song, tune and trill,

Birds, in their language, hear tell their tale

Each to its mate, in just the way that we

Pray to the dear friends we love here:

So I that love the worthiest

Must make a song so far above the rest

It has no false rhyme, no word in error.

I did not stray, I

Felt no lack of will,

When I first entered the castle's pale,

Where is she I hunger for, my lady,

St Guillelm's nephew's ache was no greater:

A thousand times a day I yawn and stretch

Because of the lovely one, as much the best

As above that ague rates deepest pleasure.

I was well liked, no lie,

My words they left no chill,

No wise man but my choice must hail,

Not copper but pure gold pleased me,

That day I saw my lady, kissed her,

And she her lovely blue cloak pressed

Round me, to set snake-tongues at rest,

And hide what bad mouths deliver.

No branch alive

That bud and blossom fill

That bird's beak trembles like a gale,

Is fresher, no Rouen would suit me,

Or Jerusalem, without my lover,

Hands clasped, I yield to her I confess,

Dover's King her love would honour no less,

Or those of Estela and Pamplona.

God on high,

By whom was forgiven all ill

Committed by Longis, blind as a nail,

May He will that my love and I entwine sweetly,

In the room where we pledged to be together,

Rich pledge from which great joy I expect,

Her sweet body, smiling, kissing, to address,

And gaze at her against the light of the lamp, there.

What, Mouth, do you sigh?

I think you'll have robbed me, would still,

Of such promises as would entail

Honour even for the Emperor of Greece,

Rouen's lord, or Tyre and Bethlehem's ruler:

Yet a fool am I, seeking what I repent, excess,

Since Love has no power to protect me, and less

Wise is the man who does his joy dissever.

The merciless try,

With sharp tongues, poison to distil,

I fear them not, though Galicia's lord, men say,

They forced to sin, whom we may blame it seems

For capturing, on a pilgrimage fair,

The count's son Raymond, and in intent

King Ferdinand wins little true merit yet

If he'll not free nor return him ever.

I would have seen it, but I wait here yet:

I was at the crowning of the good king of Estampa.

Note: Pound quotes part of verse 5 last line 'E quel remir contral lums de la lampa' in Canto VII.

Er vei vermeilhs, vertz, blaus, blancs, gruocs

'I am Arnaut, who weeping goes and sings:

seeing, gone by, the folly in my mind,

joyful, I hope for what the new day brings. . . .
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.