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Langue D'Oc

Alba

When the nightingale to his mate
Sings day-long and night late
My love and I keep state
In bower,
In flower,
''Till the watchman on the tower
Cry:
'Up! Thou rascal, Rise,
I see the white
Light
And the night
Flies:

I
Compleynt of a gentleman who has been waiting outside for some time

O plasmatour and true celestial light,
Lord powerful, engirdled all with might,
Give my good-fellow aid in fools' despite
Who stirs not forth this night,
And day comes on.
'Sst! my good fellow, art awake or sleeping?
Sleep thou no more. I see the star upleaping
That hath the dawn in keeping,
And day comes on!
'Hi! Harry, hear me, for I sing aright
Sleep not thou now, I hear the bird in flight
That plaineth of the going of the night,
And day comes on!
‘Come now! Old swenkin! Rise up from thy bed,
I see the signs upon the welkin spread,
If thou come not, the cost be on thy head.
And day comes on!
‘And here I am since going down of sun,
And pray to God that is St. Mary's son,
To bring thee safe back, my companion.
And day comes on.
'And thou out here beneath the porch of stone
Badest me to see that a good watch was done,
And now thou'lt none of me, and wilt have none
Of song of mine.
(Bass voice from inside)
'Wait, my good fellow. For such joy I take
With her venust and noblest to my make
To hold embraced, and will not her forsake
For yammer of the cuckold,
Though day break.'
(Girart Bornello)

II
Avril

When the springtime is sweet
And the birds repeat
Their new song in the leaves.
‘Tis meet
A man go where he will.

But from where my heart is set
No message I get;
My heart all wakes and grieves;
Defeat
Or luck, I must have my fill.

Our love comes out
Like the branch that turns about
On the top of the hawthorne,
With frost and hail at night
Suffers despite
'Till the sun come, and the green leaf on the bough.

I remember the young day
When we set strife away,
And she gave me such gesning,
Her love and her ring:
God grant I die not by any man's stroke
'Till I have my hand 'neath her cloak.

I care not for their clamour
Who have come between me and my charmer,
For I know how words run loose,
Big talk and little use.
Spoilers of pleasure,
We take their measure.
(Guilhem de Peitieu)

III
Descant on a Theme by Cerclamon

When the sweet air goes bitter,
And the cold birds twitter
Where the leaf falls from the twig,
I sough and sing

that Love goes out
Leaving me no power to hold him.

Of love I have naught
Save trouble and sad thought,
And nothing is grievous
as I desirous,
Wanting only what
No man can get or has got.

With the noblest that stands in men's sight,
If all the world be in despite
I care not a glove.
Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun;
God give me life, and let my course run

'Till I have her I love
To lie with and prove.

I do not live, nor cure me,
Nor feel my ache great as it is,
For love will give
me no respite,
Nor do I know when I turn left or right
nor when I go out.

For in her is all my delight
And all that can save me.

I shake and burn and quiver
From love, awake and in swevyn,
Such fear I have she deliver
me not from pain,
Who know not how to ask her;
Who can not.
Two years, three years I seek
And though I fear to speak out,
Still she must know it.

If she won't have me now, Death is my portion,
Would I had died that day
I came into her sway.
God! How softly this kills!
When her love look steals on me.
Killed me she has, I know not how it was,
For I would not look on a woman.

Joy I have none, if she make me not mad
Or set me quiet, or bid me chatter.
Good is it to me if she flout
Or turn me inside out, and about.
My ill doth she turn sweet.

How swift it is.
For I am traist and loose,
I am true, or a liar,
All vile, or all gentle,
Or shaking between,
as she desire,
I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,
The man whom love had
and has ever;
Alas! who'er it please or pain,
She can me retain.
I am gone from one joy,
From one I loved never so much,
She by one touch
Reft me away;
So doth bewilder me
I can not say my say
nor my desire,
And when she looks on me
It seems to me
I lose all wit and sense.

The noblest girls men love
'Gainst her I prize not as a glove
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

4:17 min read
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Ezra Pound

Ezra Weston Loomis Pound was an American expatriate poet and critic of the early modernist movement. more…

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