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| prosody | miscellaneous |
Ar resplan la flors envèrsa Pels trencans rancs e pels tertres Quals flors? Neus, gels e conglapis Que cotz e destrenh e trenca; Don vey morz quils, critz, brays, siscles En fuelhs, en rams e en giscles. Mas mi ten vert e jauzen Joys Er quan vei secx los dolens croys. Quar enaissi m'o envèrse Que bel plan mi semblon tertre, E tenc per flor lo conglapi, E·l cautz m'es vis que·l freit trenque, E·l tro mi son chant e siscle, E paro·m fulhat li giscle. Aissi·m sui ferm lassatz en joy Que re non vey que·m sia croy. Mas una gen fad' envèrsa (com s'erom noirit en tertres) Qu·em fan pro piegs que conglapis; Qu·us quecs ab sa lenga trenca E·n parla bas et ab siscles; E no i val bastos ni giscles, Ni menassas; –ans lur es joys Quan fan so don hom los clam croys. Quar en baizan no·us envèrse No m'o tolon pla ni tertre, Dona, ni gel ni conglapi, Mais non-poder trop en trenque. Dona, per cuy chant e siscle, Vostre belh huelh mi son giscle, Que·m castion si·l cor ab joy Qu'ieu no·us aus aver talant croy. Anat ai com cauz' envèrsa Sercan rancx e vals e tertres, Marritz cum selh que conglapis Cocha e mazelh' e trenca: Que no·m conquis chans ni siscles Plus que flohs clercx conquer giscles. Mas ar – Dieu lau – m'alberga Joys Malgrat dels fals lauzengiers croys. Mos vers an – qu'aissi l'envèrse, Que no·l tenhon bosc ni tertre – Lai on om non sen conglapi, Ni a freitz poder que y trenque. A midons lo chant e·l siscle Clar, qu'el cor l'en intro·l giscle, Selh que sap gen chantar ab joy Que no tanh a chantador croy. Doussa dona, Amors et Joys Nos ajosten malgrat dels croys. Jocglar, granren ai meynhs de joy! Quar no·us vey, en fas semblan croy. |
Now the flora shines, perverse, through the jagged cliffs and through the hills. Which flora? Snow, ice and frost which stings and hurts and cuts; wherefore I can't hear anymore calls, cries, tweets and whistles among leafage, branches and twigs. But I am kept green and merry by Joy now that I see wither the felons and the bad. For now I so reverse [things] that fair plains look to me like a hill and I mistake flowers for frost and, through cold, heat appears to me to cut and the thunder I believe to sing and whistle and leafage seem to me to cover the twig. I am so firmly bound in joy that, to me, nothing looks bad. But a crowd grown perverse, as if it were brought up among the hills plagues me far more than the frost: for each one of their tongues cuts and speaks softly, as in whistles; and it doesn't avail [hitting them] with staves and twigs, nor do threats; for they call joy doing what makes people call them bad. I cannot by kept by cold nor by frost, nor by plain or hill, from kissing you, reverse, lady for whom I sing and whistle, but by powerlessness too much am I cut [down]; your beautiful eyes are the twig that punishes my heart so much with joy that, towards you, my intentions don't dare be bad. I have gone about like a perverse thing, searching crags and dales and hills, as distressed as one whom frost bites and batters and cuts: but I am not won by songs and whistles more than a foolish student is won by twigs. But now – god be praised – I am harboured by Joy in spite of the slanderers, captious and bad. Let my verse go – for I rerverse it so that it can't be stopped by wood or hill – there where one doesn't feel the frost, nor cold has power enough to cut. May someone tersely sing and whistle it to my lady, and may it sprout [a new] twig in her heart; let him be one who can sing nobly and with joy for it doesn't befit a singer who is bad. Sweet lady, Love and Joy match us in spite of the bad. Joglar, I have much less joy: since I don't see you, I look bad. |