Canso: Quan lo rius, by Jaufre Rudel

When the fountain stream

clears, as always,

and the hawthorne flowers

and to his branch the nightingale

drops, trilling, turning, smoothing

his sweet embellished song,

I feel it time to begin mine.

Distant love,

my heart's grief for you

finds no restorative

but in your call,

sweet with attractions

of love in an orchard or behind closed curtains,

with you, my desire.

Comfort always fails,

no wonder I'm consumed

by love, a fairer

Christian, Jew, Saracen

never was. A token of her love:

a gift divine.

Love discovers

endless desire,

but wishes deceive.

I believe from desire

I will bleed from sadness

more cutting than thorns. But no pity.

(By word of mouth I send

this verse to be sung

in plain romance language

by Filhol to Lord Hugo Brun,

for they all like him,

the Poituans and Berrians,

Guianese and Bretons.)