Saturday, November 15, 2014

Thơ tình Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

Ab la dolchor del temps novel
(Out of the sweetness of the spring)

Out of the sweetness of the spring,
The branches leaf, the small birds sing,
Each one chanting in its own speech,
Forming the verse of its new song,
Then is it good a man should reach
For that for which he most does long.
From finest sweetest place I see
No messenger, no word for me,
So my heart can’t laugh or rest,
And I don’t dare try my hand,
Until I know, and can attest,
That all things are as I demand.
This love of ours it seems to be
Like a twig on a hawthorn tree
That on the tree trembles there
All night, in rain and frost it grieves,
Till morning, when the rays appear
Among the branches and the leaves.
So the memory of that dawn to me
When we ended our hostility,
And a most precious gift she gave,
Her loving friendship and her ring:
Let me live long enough, I pray,
Beneath her cloak my hand to bring.
I’ve no fear that tongues too free
Might part me from Sweet Company,
I know with words how they can stray
In gossip, yet that’s a fact of life:
No matter if others boast of love,
We have the loaf, we have the knife!
Một bản dịch khác và tiếng ca trên Youtube

A New Song for New Days

Guillem de Peiteus

Such sweetness spreads through these new days:
As woods leaf out, each bird must raise
In pure bird-latin of its kind
The melody of a new song.
It's only fair a man should find
His peace with what he's sought so long.

From her, where grace and beauty spring,
No word's come and no signet ring.
My heart won't rest and can't exult;
I don't dare move or take a stand
Until I know our strife's result
And if she'll yield to my demands.

As for our love, you must know how
Love goes—it's like the hawthorn bough
That on the living tree stands, shaking
All night beneath the freezing rain
Till next day when the warm sun, waking,
Spreads through green leaves and boughs again.

That morning comes to mind once more
We two made peace in our long war;
She, in good grace, was moved to give
Her ring to me with true love's oaths.
God grant me only that I live
To get my hands beneath her clothes!

I can't stand their vernacular
Who'd keep my love from me afar.
By way of words, I guess I've found
A little saying that runs rife:
Let others mouth their love around;
We've got the bread, we've got the knife.

trans. W. D. Snodgrass (1998)

Ab la dolchor del temps novel Foillo li bosc, e li aucel...

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