BY RYAN WHYTE
CANZO -- GUILLAUME IX D'AQUITAINE
Will make a verse of right nothing :
Not of me nor of other folks
Not of love nor of youth
Nor of nothing other,
It has been troubadoured while sleeping
on my horse.
Know not in what hour I was born
Not of light heart nor irate,
Nor estranged nor of self deprived
I may make nothing of it
If shortly was I, of night, so made
on a mountain.
Know not if I am asleep
If whether I wake, less one tell me.
Small the lack if the heart be gone
Such is the pain:
I make no more process of it than a mouse,
By saint Martial!
Ill am I and fear to die,
I know of it but what I may hear augured
Search a doctor for better succor
Know not whom
Good doctor he if he may cure me
But not, if he abandon me.
Friend have I, know not who she is
That I have not seen her, may I swear it;
Neither made me that pleases or that pains,
Nor that my body warms;
Have not ever Normans or Franks
In my hostel.
Have not seen her and love her strongly,
She has done me neither good nor transgress;
Have never seen her, her love disports me beautifully,
Worth no more to me than a cock,
I know another more genteel and beautifuller
Who is worth more.
Made is the verse, know not of what;
Will transmit it to him
That will transmit it to another
Far toward Anjou,
May he deliver the key
To his sideboard!
False world, good-night! Fine decorum,
All our speech frozen in cannon.
Bronze cast thought of bold alarum
What inscribed be heaven anon.
Not paintings, but paint through and through
Nor pot of demoiselle, mirror,
That sells not, but to speak to shew
World of worlds in bloody river.
Toys? Trifles? Rhetor's snares very
Life's breath wrote in airy engines;
Th'household spy projects star hairy,
Tissue'd glamour and crafty gins.
King's hunt weaves for us a gilt shroud
Of speech, thought, book, love, hope, faith, life,
In flesh pushing quietly in wold, bowed
'Neath weird antler, no time for strife.