Marcabru trans. A.S.Kline
(from Provençal)

A la fontana del vergier,
On l'erb' es vertz jost·l gravier,
A l'ombra d'un fust domesgier,
En aiziment de blancas flors
E de novelh chant costumier,
Trobei sola ses companhier,
Selha que no vol mon solatz.

So fon donzelh'ab son cors belh
Filha d'un senhor de castelh;
E quant ieu cugei que l'auzelh
Li fesson joi e la verdors,
E pel dous termini novelh,
E quez entendes mon favelh,
Tosteli fon sos afars camjatz.

Dels huelhs ploret josta la fon
E del cor sospiret preon.
"Ihesus," dis elha, reis del mon,
Per vos mi creis ma grans dolors,
Quar vostra anta mi cofon,
Quar li melhor de tot est mon
Vos van servir, mas a vos platz.

Ab vos s'en vai lo meus amicx,
Lo belhs e·l gens e·l pros e·l ricx;
Sai m'en reman lo grans destricx,
Lo deziriers soven e·l plors.
Ai! mala fos reis Lozoicx,
Que fai los mans e los prezicx
Per que·l dols m'es en cor intratz!

Quant ieu l'auzi desconortar,
Ves lieis vengui Josta·l riu clar:
"Belha, fi·m ieu, per trop plorar
Afolha cars e colors;
E no vos cal dezesperar,
Que selh qui fai lo bosc fulhar,
Vos pot donar de joi assatz."

"Senher, dis elha, ben o crei
Que Deus aia de mi mercei
En l'autre segle per jassei,
Quon assatz d'autres peccadors;
Mas sai mi tolh aquelha rei
Don jois mi crec; mas pauc mi tei
Que trop s'es de mi alonhatz."

In an orchard down by the stream,
Where at the edge the grass is green,
In the shade of an apple-tree,
By a plot of flowers all white,
Where spring sang its melody,
I met alone without company
One who wishes not my solace.

She was a young girl, beautiful,
Child of the lord of that castle;
But when I thought the songbirds call
Might, from its tree, make her heart light,
And sweet the fresh season all,
And she might hear my prayers fall,
A different look did cross her face.

Her tears flowed, the fount beside,
And from her heart her prayer sighed.
Jesus, King of the World, she cried,
Through you my grief is at its height,
Insult to you confounds me, I
Lose the best of this world wide:
He goes to serve and win your grace.

With you goes my handsome friend,
The gentle, noble, and brave I send;
Into great sorrow I must descend,
Endless longing, and tears so bright.
Ai! King Louis to ill did tend
Who gave the order and command,
That brought such grief to my hearts space!

When I heard her so, complaining,
I went to her, by fountains flowing:
Lady, I said with too much crying
Your face will lose its colour quite;
And youve no reason yet for sighing,
For he who makes the birds to sing,
Will grant you joy enough apace.

My lord, she said, I do believe
That God will have mercy on me
In another world eternally,
And many other sinners delight;
But here he takes the thing from me
That is my joy; small joy I see
Now that hes gone so far away.

Click here 1 for another translation of this poem.

Trans. Copyright © A.S.Kline 2009 see also http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/FromDawntoDawn.htm

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