Can vei la lauzeta ( l'envoi chanté par Jean-Luc):

Tristans, ges no.n auretz de me,
qu'eu m'en vau, chaitius, no sai on,
De chantar me gic e.m recre
e de joi e d'amor m'escon.

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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Lancan vei la folha

Tuit cil que.m preyon qu'eu chan,
volgra saubesson lo ver,
s'eu n'ai aize ni lezer.
Chantes qui chantar volria,
qu'eu non saup ni chan ni via,
pois perdei ma benanansa
per ma mala destinansa.

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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The Nightingale

When grass grows green, and fresh leaves spring,
And flowers are budding on the plain,
When nightingales so sweetly sing,
And through the greenwood swells the strain,
Then joy I in the song and in the flower,
Joy in myself, but in my lady more;
All objects round my spirit turns to joy,
But most from her my rapture rises high.

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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Cantarai d'aquest trobadors

Cantarai d'aquestz trobadors
que canton de maintas colors
e.l pieier cuida dir mout gen;
mas a cantar lor er aillors
q'entrametre.n vei cen pastors
c'us non sap qe.s mont'o.s dissen.

(I shall sing of the troubadours
who sing in every kind of way;
and many think the worst of them.
But I see a hundred shepherds,
and don't know if they are going
up or going down.)

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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When I Behold The Lark

When I behold the lark upspring
To meet the bright sun joyfully,
How he forgets to poise his wing
In his gay spirit's revelry,
Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring
E'en from that happy songster's glee!
Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring
Not joy, but pining care to me!

I thought my heart had known the whole
Of love, but small its knowledge proved.
For still the more my longing soul
Loves on, itself the while unloved:
She stole my heart, myself she stole,
And all I prized from me removed;
She left me but the fierce control
Of vain desires for her I loved.

All self-command is now gone by,
E'er since the luckless hour when she

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poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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When Nightingales Their Lulling Song

When nightingales their lulling song
For me have breathed the whole night long,
Thus soothed, I sleep; - yet, when awake,
Again will joy my heart forsake,
Pensive in love, in sorrow pining
All other fellowship declining:
Not such was once my blest employ,
When all my heart, my song, was joy.

And none who knew that joy, but well
Could tell how bright, unspeakable,
How far above all common bliss,
Was then my heart's pure happiness;
How lightly on my fancy ranged,
Gay tale and pleasant jest exchanged,
Dreaming such joy must ever be
In love like that I bore for thee.

They that behold me little dream
How wide my spirit soars from them,

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poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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Can vei la lauzeta

When I see the lark joyfully moving its wings against the sun's rays, and falling because of the sweetness that enters its heart, ah! a great envy comes upon me of all those who I see happy. I am astonished that my heart does not melt with desire.
Alas! I thought I knew so much about love, and I know so little, because I cannot stop loving the one from whom I will never obtain anything. She has taken my heart, myself, herself, and the whole world, and has left me with nothing but yearning and a languishing heart.

I no longer have power over myself, and am no longer my own person, from the moment when she lets me look into her eyes, that mirror that pleases me so. Mirror, since I am mirrored in you, my sighs have caused my death, for I am lost just as Narcissus lost himself in the fountain.

I despair of women; never more shall I trust them. As once I exalted them, now shall I cast them down. Since I see that not one of them is for me against she who destroys and confounds me, I doubt and mistrust them all, since I well know they are all the same.

And in this I see that my lady is very much a woman, and that is why I criticize her. For she does not want that which she should want, and that which she is forbidden, she does. I am fallen very low, and I have acted like the fool on the bridge. And I don't know why this has happened to me, unless it's because I tried to mount too high.

Since nothing works any more with my lady - neither prayers nor pity nor my rights concerning her; and since it no longer pleases her that I love her, I will never more say it to her. And so I take my leave and go away from her. She has killed me, and I respond to her with death. And I leave, since she doesn't retain me, I the unhappy one, into exile, I know not where

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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Pois preyatz me, senhor

Pois preyatz me, senhor,
qu'eu chan, eu chantarai;
e can cuit chantar, plor
a l'ora c'o essai.
Greu veiretz chantador
be chan, si mal li vai.
Vai me doncs mal d'amor?
Ans mels que no fetz mai!
E doncs, per que m'esmai?

Gran ben e gran onor
conosc que Deus me fai,
qu'eu am la belazor
et ilh me, qu'eu o sai.
Mas eu sui sai, alhor,
e no sai com l'estai!
So m'auci de dolor,
car ochaizo non ai
de soven venir lai.

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poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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En cossirer e en esmai

En cossirer et en esmai
sui d'un amor que.m lass'e.m te,
que tan no vau ni sai ni lai
qu'ilh ades no.m tenh' en so fre,
c' aras m'a dat cor e talen
qu' eu enqueses, si podia,
tal que, si.l reis l'enqueria,
auria faih gran ardimen.

Ai las, chaitius! e que.m farai?
ni cal cosselh penrai de me?
Qu'ela no sap lo mal qu'eu trai
ni eu no.lh aus clamar merce.
Fol nesci! ben as pauc de sen,
qu'ela nonca t' amaria
per nom que per drudaria,
c'ans no.t laisses levar al ven!

E doncs, pois atressi.m morrai,
dirai li l'afan que m'en ve?

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poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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Per mels cobrir lo mal pes (Anne)

Per melhs cobrir lo mal pes e.l cossire
chan e deport et ai joi e solatz;
e fatz esfortz car sai chantar ni rire,
car eu me mor e nul semblan no.n fatz;
e per Amor sui si apoderatz,
tot m'a vencut a forsa e batalha.

Anc Deus no fetz trebalhas ni martire,
ses mal d'amor, qu'eu no sofris en patz;
mas d'aquel sui, si be.m peza, sofrire,
c'Amors mi fai amar lai on li platz;
e dic vos be que s'eu no sui amatz,
ges no reman en lai mia nualha.

Midons sui om et amics e servire,
e no.lh en quer mais autras amistatz
mas c'a celat los seus bels olhs me vire,
que gran be.m fan ades can sui iratz;
e ren lor en laus e merces e gratz,
qu'el mon non ai amic que tan me valha.

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poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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