XI

93

I HAVE been questioned, though rather in regard to
"The Seafarer" than to Arnaut, how much of this trans-
lation is mine and how much the original. "The Sea-
farer" was as nearly literal, I think, as any translation
can be. Nowhere in these poems of Arnaut's have I
felt it my function to "ornament" the text. Neverthe-
less, I may be able to show more precisely the style of
his language—now that I have conveyed the nature of
his rhyme schemes—by giving one translation in prose.

Beyond its external symmetry, every formal poem
should have its internal thought-form, or, at least,
thought progress. This form can, of course, be as well
displayed in a prose version as in a metrical one. It
is usually the last thing to be learned by a maker of
canzoni. In the present example it is neither remark-
able nor deficient.

XI.
EN BREU BRISARAL TEMPS BRAUS.

I.

Soon will the harsh time break upon us, the north
wind hoot in the branches which all swish together with
their closed-over boughs of leaves; no bird sings nor
"peeps" now, yet love teaches me to make a song that
shall not be second nor third, but first for freeing the
embittered heart.

II.

Love is the garden-close of worth, a pool of prowess
(i.e., low flooded land) whence all good fruits are born
if there be one to gather them faithfully; for not one
does ice or snow destroy while the good trunk
nourisheth them; but, if knave or coward break it, the
sap is lost between the loyal.

III.

A fault mended is matter for praise; and I feel in
both flanks that I have more love without thinking of it
than have those who strut talking about it; it girds
against my heart worse than a buckle. And as long as
my lady shows her face angered against me, I'd rather
bear pain in the desert where never bird hath eyrie.

IV.

Good doctrine and gentle, and the body clear, subtle
and frank, have led me to the sure hold of love of
her whom I most wish to receive me; for if she was
harsh and crabbed with me now would we cut long
time short with pleasure, for she is more fine in my eyes
and I am more set toward her than were Atalanta and
Meleagar, the one to the other.

V

I was so doubtful that for lack of daring I turned
often from black to white, and desire so raids me and
my mind that the heart knows not whether to dance or
mourn; but Joy, who gives me faith to hope, blames me
for not calling to her, for I'm so skilled at praying, and
have such slight wish for aught else except her.

VI.

It rests me to think of her, and I've both my eyes
cankered when they're not looking at her; and think
not that my heart turns from her, for neither prayers
(orars—I think perhaps here, "prayers," ecclesiastical)
nor jesting nor viol-playing can get me from her a
reed's breadth. "From her!" What have I said?
God cover me, may I perish in the sea (for setting
those words together).

Arnaut would have his song offered up somewhere
where a sweet word ends in "Agre."

"This song invites comparison, in its subtle diagnosis,
to Sappho's

general you know from whom it came,
or to Catullus' version

"He who parades his deeds, videtur;"
and to Guido's lines near.

"Gli occhi orbati fa vedere scorti!"

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