Ezra Pound

Chansson Doil
from the Provençal of Arnaut Daniel

I’ll make a song    with exquisite
Clear words, for buds are blowing sweet
Where the sprays meet,
And flowers don
Their bold blazon
Where leafage springeth greenly
The birds that sing
And cry in coppice seemly.
The bosques among    they’re singing fleet.  
In shame’s avoid my staves compete,
Fine-filed and neat,
With love’s glaives on
His ways they run;
From him no whim can turn me,
Although he bring
Great sorrowing,
Although he proudly spurn me.
For lovers strong    pride is ill won,
And throweth him who mounts thereon.
His lots are spun
So that they fling
Him staggering,
His gaudy joys move leanly,
He hath grief’s meat
And tears to eat
Who useth Love unseemly.
Though tongues speak wrong    of wrangles none
Can turn me from thee. For but one
Fear I have gone 
Traitors can sting,
From their lies I would screen thee,
And as they’d treat
Us, with deceit,
Let fate use them uncleanly.

Though my swath long    ‘s run wavering
My thoughts go forth to thee and cling,
Wherefore I sing
Of joys replete
Once, where our feet
Parted, and mine eyes plainly
Show mists begun
And sweetly undone,
For joy’s the pain doth burn me.
Save ‘neath Love’s thong I move no thing,
And my way brooks no measuring,
For right hath spring
In that Love’s heat
Was ne’er complete
As mine, since Adam.    ‘Tween me
And sly treason
No net is spun,
Wherefore my joy grows greenly.
Lady, whoe’er demean thee
My benison
Is set upon
Thy grace where it moves queenly.