Classic Poem

When the fountain's flow
Shines brilliantly as usual,
And the wild rose appears,
And the little nightingale on the branch
Varies, changes, smooths out
And perfects his sweet song,
It is right that I should rehearse mine.

Love from a distant land,
For you my whole self aches;
And I can find no remedy
Unless I go at her call,
With the lure of sweet love,
In a garden or beneath a curtain
With a desired companion.

Since I get no relief at all,
I am not surprised if I am aflame,
For there was never a nobler Christian woman,
A Jewess or a Saracen,
For God does not wish that there be;
And whoever gains any of her love
Is well fed with manna.

I do not cease desiring
Her whom I love most,
And I think my will deceives me
If lust takes her away from me;
And the pain which is relieved by enjoyment
Is more piercing than a thorn,
And I want no one to pity me for it.

Without a parchment letter
I send the song which we sing
Plainly and in Romance tongue
To Lord Hugh the Swarthy, by Godson;
And I am glad that the Poitevins,
The men of Berry, the men of Guyenne,
And the Bretons rejoice for him.