In the sweetness of new spring
the woods grow leafy, little birds,
each in their own language, sing,
rehearse new stanzas with new words,
and it is good that man should find
the joy that most enchants his mind.

I see no messenger or note
from her, my first source of delight;
my heart can neither sleep nor laugh,
I dare not make a further move,
till I know what the end will be -
is she what I would have her be?

Our love together goes the way
of the branch on the hawthorn-tree,
trembling in the night, a prey
to the hoar-frost and the showers,
till next morning, when the sun
enfolds the green leaves and the boughs.

One morning I remember still
we put an end to skirmishing,
and she gave me so great a gift:
her loving body, and her ring.
May God keep me alive until
my hands again move in her mantle!

For I shun that strange talk which might pull
my Helpmeet and myself apart;
I know that words have their own life,
and swift discourses spread about -
let others vaunt love as they will,
we have love’s food, we have the knife!

Ab la douzor del temps novel
Fueillon li bosc, e li auzel
Chanton chascus en lor lati,
Segon lo vers del novel chan:
Adonc esta ben q’on s’aizi
De zo dont hom a plus talan.

De lai don plus m’es bon e bel
No-m ve messatger ni sagel,
Don mon cors non dorm ni non ri
Ni no m’en auz traire enan,
Tro que eu sapcha ben de la fi,
S’el es aissi com eu deman.

La nostr’amor va enaissi
Com la brancha de l’albespi
Qu’estai sobre l’arbre tremblan,
La noig, ab la ploi’ e al gel,
Tro l’endeman, qe-l sols s’espan
Per la fueilla vert el ramel.

Anquar me membra d’un mati
Que nos fezem de guerra fi
E que-m donet un don tan gran,
Sa drudari’e son anel:
Anquar me lais Dieus viure tan
Qu’aia mas manz sotz son mantel!

Qu’ieu non ai soing d’estraing lati
Qe-m parta de mon Bon Vezi,
Q’ieu sai de paraulas com van,
Ab un breu sermon qi s’espel:
Que tal se van d’amor gaban;
Nos n’avem la pess’e-l coutel.