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En avril au tens pascour,
Que sur l'herbe naist la flour,
l'aloete au point du jour
chante par moult grant baudour, |
Pour la douçour du tems nouvel,
Si me levai par un matin,
S'oï chanter sur l'arbrissel
Un oiselet en son latin.
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Un petit me soulevai
Pour esgarder sa faiture;
N'en soi mot, que des oiseaux
Vi venir à desmesure. |
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Je vis l'oriou,
Et le rossignou,
Si vi le pinçon
Et l'esmerillon, |
Dieu, et tant des autres oiseaux,
De quoi je ne sai pas les noms,
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Qui sur cel arbre s'assistrent
Et commencent leur chançon.
Je m'en alai sous la flour
Pour oïr joie d'amour. |
Tout belement par un prael
Li dieus d'Amours vis chevauchier.
Je m'en alai à son appel,
De moi a fait son escuier.
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Ses chevaus fu de depors,
Sa selle de ses dangiers,
Ses escus fut de quartiers
De baisier et de sourire. |
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Ses haubers estoit
D'acoler estroit,
Ses heaumes de flours
De pluseurs colours. |
Dieu, sa lance est de cortoisie,
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Espee de flour de glai,
Ses chauces de mignotie,
Esperons de bec de jai.
Tuit chanterent à un son, |
Onc n'i ot autre jongleör.
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In April at Easter Tide
When flowers in grass spring to life
The lark at break of day does rise
And sings away with true delight, |
With the sweetness of fresh greenery.
Early one morning I did rise,
And heard a little bird on a tree
His own song carolling on high.
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I lifted my head to spy
What sort of bird he might be:
In the twinkling of an eye
Flocks of birds descend on me. |
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Orioles I hail,
And the nightingale,
Chaffinches I view,
And the merlin too, |
God knows how many in the air,
Whose names I am lost among,
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That roosted on the branches, there,
And began to sing their song.
I walked through that blossoming
Listening to love’s joy ring. |
Over the meadow, riding slow,
I saw the god of Love pass by.
At his summons to him I go
And he makes of me his squire.
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His horse was made of delight,
His saddle of Love’s delays,
His shield quartered by, I say,
Love’s kisses and Love’s sighs. |
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His coat of mail
Was a close embrace,
His helm of flowers
Of the rainbow race. |
God, his lance was of courtesy,
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His sword an iris blade,
His hose a caress, you see,
Spurs made of the beaks of jays.
They all sang a single song, |
With never another musician.
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