From Syria

In April when I see all through

Mead and garden new flowers blow,

And streams with ice-bands broken flow,

Eke hear the birds their singing do;

When spring's grass-perfume floateth by

Then‘ tis sweet song and birdlet's cry

Do make mine old joy come anew.

Such time was wont my thought of old

To wander in the ways of love.

Burnishing arms and clang thereof,

And honour-services manifold

Be now my need. Whoso combine

Such works, love is his bread and wine,

Wherefore should his fight the more be bold.

Song bear I, who tears should bring

Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy,

With song think I to make me joy.

Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing:

“He sings who sorrow's guise should wear.”

Natheless I will not despair

That sometime I'll have cause to sing.

I should not to despair give way

That some while I'll my lady see.

I trust well He that lowered me

Hath power again to make me gay.

But if e'er I come to my Love's land

And turn again to Syrian strand,

God keep me there for a fool, alway!

God for a miracle well should

Hold my coming from her away,

And hold me in His grace alway

That I left her, for holy-rood.

An I lose her, no joy for me,

Pardi, hath the wide world in fee.

Nor could He mend it, if He would.

Well did she know sweet wiles to take

My heart, when thence I took my way.

‘ Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a day

For that sweet semblance she did make

To me, saying all in sorrow:

“Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?”

“Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?”

Beyond sea be thou sped, my song,

And, by God, to my Lady say

That in desirous, grief-filled way

My nights and my days are full long.

And command thou William the Long-Seer

To tell thee to my Lady dear,

That comfort be her thoughts among.