| LO GENS TEMS DE PASCOR ... | THE GOOD TIME OF THE YEAR ... |
| Bernart de Ventadorn | trans. John Frederick Nims (from Provençal) |
|
Lo gens tems de pascor ab la frescha verdor nos adui folh' e flor de diversa color, per que tuih amador son gai e chantador mas eu, que planh e plor, cui jois non a sabor. A totz me clam, senhor, de midons e d'Amor, c'aicist dui träidor, car me fiav'en lor, me fan viur' a dolor per ben e per onor c'ai faih a la gensor, que no·m val ni·m acor. Pen' e dolor e dan n'ai agut, e n'ai gran, mas sofert o ai tan. - no m'o tenh ad afan; c'anc no vitz nulh aman, melhs ames ses enjan, qu'eu no·m vau ges chamjan si com las domnas fan. Pois fom amdui efan, l'am ades e la blan; e·s vai mos jois doblan a chasen jorn del an. e si no·m fai enan amor e bel semblan, cant er velha, ·m deman que l'aya bo talan. Las! e viure que·m val, s'eu no vei a jornal mo fi joi natural en leih, sotz fenestral cors blanc tot atretal com la neus a nadal, si c'amdui cominal mezuressem egal? Anc no vitz drut 1eyal, sordeis o aya sal, qu'eu l'am d'amor coral, ela·m ditz: "no m'en chal;" enans ditz que per al no m'a ira mortal; e si d'aisso·m vol mal, pechat n'a criminal. Be for' oimais sazos, bela domna e pros, que·m fos datz a rescos en baizan guizardos, si ja per als no fos, mas car sui enveyos, c'us bes val d'autres dos, can per fors' es faihz dos. Can vei vostras faissos e·ls bels olhs amoros, be·m meravilh de vos com etz de mal respos. e sembla·m trassios, can om par francs e bos e pois es orgolhos lai on es poderos. E Bel Vezer, si no fos mos enans totz en vos, laissat agra chansos per mal dels enoyos. |
The good time of the year when sweeter fields appear. Leaves, flowers, and all. The sheer silk greenery, dark or clear. Then love's exultant men take singing up again. Not I. I'm mournful when I think of joy that's been. I'm all complaints: You know love and this girl? They go urging my overthrow - stab in the back - although I swore my faith to these, tried with my soul to please the best girl heaven sees, who rates me at - two peas? Snubs, suffering, loss, regret I've known them, know them yet; chewed on "Forgive, forget"; learned to endure. Will bet you'll never see the day I promise, then betray. I'm different. Girls now, they fall often by the way. From childhood on, my true and one great passion: you. All weathers, grey or blue, my ardor grew and grew. Unless, though, you outpour favors of love before old age leans on the door - ! Try coaxing then for more. Life gives - ? well nothing quite like having day and night the one joy mine by right: in bed, by window-light yourself undressed, a glow merry as Christmas snow, where we lie fitted so we're snug from head to toe. None ever loved so well or with worse news to tell. As my pure longings swell she'll stretch - a yawning spell! - and then a shrug, "Well I really don't care, is why." If true, or if some lie, that damns her by and by. I plead: "But who's to miss (well, some day, if not this) one tiny sip of bliss, a quick dark-stairway kiss?" You'll kiss me, no? Encore? And never ask what for. Forced charity's a chore. Give freely is give more. Seeing your face among the crowd, with all eyes hung on you, so warm, so young, I think: her terrible tongue! It's treason, plain to see, when "flowers of courtesy" go frozen, at the plea of one poor bended knee. E Now Blue-Eyes, but for you (and sweet Miss Other too) I'd play it mum, lip curled, in so morose a world. |
Click here 2 for another translation of this poem.
Trans. Copyright © Mrs. Bonnie Nims 1971 - publ. Rutgers University Press