No More Learning

Bel m'es quan lo vens m'alena

It's sweet when the breeze blows softly,

As April turns into May,

And in tranquil night above me,

Sing the nightingale and jay.

When each bird in his sweet language,

In the freshness of the morn

Sings, joyful of his advantage,

At ease with his mate, at dawn.

As all things on earth have joy so,

Are happy when leaves appear,

Then I'll recall a love I know

And rejoice in all the year.

By past usage and by nature,

It seems now that I must turn

Where soft winds revive the creature,

And heart must dream and yearn.

Whiter she is than Helen was,

The loveliest flower of May,

Full of courtesy, sweet lips she has,

And ever true word does say.

Open-hearted, her manner free,

Fresh colour and golden hair,

God who grants her all sovereignty

Preserve her, the best is there.

I'd be blessed, if she'd not treat me

To endless quarrelling here,

But grant me a kiss discretely

For my service costs me dear.

Then we'd go on a brief journey,

Often, a fine short play;

For her sweet body has led me

Willingly on that way.

Arnaut Daniel (fl. 1180-1210)

Arnaut Daniel de Riberac, of Ribeyrac in Perigord, was praised, in Dante's Purgatorio, by Guido Guinicelli, as il miglior fabbro, the better maker, and called the Grand Master of Love by Petrarch. Riberac is on the left bank of the Dronne in the Dordogne.

'Ieu sui Arnautz qu'amas l'aura

e chatz la lebre ab lo bueu

e nadi contra suberna. '

'I am Arnaut who nets the breeze

and with an ox pursues the hare

and swims against the rising seas. '

Sols sui qui sai lo sobrafan que? m sortz

I am the one that knows the pain that flows

Through loving hearts that suffer love's excess,

For my desire is ever so firm and whole

I have never denied her, never wandered

From one I so desired at once and ever:

Far from her, now, I call to her urgently,

Though when she's here I know not what to say.
My blindness, my deafness to others shows

That only her I see, and hear, and bless,

And I offer her no false flatteries so,

For the heart more than the mouth gives word;

That in field, plain, hill, vale, though I go everywhere

I'd not discern all qualities in one sole body,

Only hers, where God sets them all today.

Many a goodly court my presence knows,

Yet in her there's more that does impress,

Measure and wit and other virtue glows

Beauty, youth, good manners, actions stir,

Of courtesy she has well-learnt her share

Of all displeasing things I find her free

I think no good thing lacking anyway.

No joy for me were too brief that arose

From her: I hope that she might guess,

For of me she'll otherwise not know,

Since the heart such words can scarce utter,

That the Rhone, its swollen waters there,

No fiercer than my heart flows inwardly,

Nor floods more with love, when on her I gaze.

Solace and joy seem false from those

Other girls, none share her worthiness,

Her solace exceeds all others though,

Ay, alas, ill times if I do not have her,

Yet the anguish brings me joy so fair,

For thinking brings desire of her lustily:

God, if I might have her some other way!

No play ever pleased more, you may suppose,

Nothing could bring the heart more happiness,

Than this, of which no evil rumours grow

All publicly, to me alone its treasure;

I speak too openly? Not if it brings no care:

My beauty, by God, I'd lose my tongue and speech,

Rather than trouble you by what I say.

And I pray my song indeed brings you no care,

For if you like both words and melody

What cares Arnaut whom it pleases or shall dismay.

Quan chai la fueilha

When the pale leaves descend

From the high crowns of trees

And the cold airs ascend,

Hazel and willow freeze,

To sweet melodies

The forest is then no friend,

Yet, who may flee,

I long for true Love again.

Though cold it grows,

I will not freeze forever,

In whom love rose

That will my heart deliver

I'll not shiver,

Love hides me from head to toe,

Brings strength rather

And tells me which way to go.

Good is this life

That my delight sustains

Though he who knows strife

May otherwise complain

I know no gain

In changing of my life

All free of pain,

By my faith's, my share of strife.

In true love-making

I find none here to blame,

With others, playing,

There's bad luck in the game,

There's none the same

As her, there's no repeating,

She's one I name

Beyond all equalling.

I'd not go giving

My heart to another love

Lest I find it fleeing

Or from her gaze remove;

I fear not too

That Malspina's rhyming,

Can prove

A nobler than her in seeming.

There's nothing bad there

In she who is my friend;

This side Savoy here

None finer I contend;

Joys without end

She gives and greater

Than Paris gained

In Troy from his Helena.

She is more lovely

She who brings delight,

Than the noble thirty

Finer in every light,

So it is right

That she hear my melody

For she's the height

Of worth, wins all praise truly.

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.