When we set strife away,

And she gave me such gesning,

Her love and her ring:

God grant I die not by any man’s stroke

’Till I have my hand ’neath her cloak.

I care not for their clamour

Who have come between me and my charmer,

For I know how words run loose,

Big talk and little use.

Spoilers of pleasure,

We take their measure.

(Guilhem de Peitieu.)

III

Descant on a Theme by Cerclamon

WHEN the sweet air goes bitter,

W

And the cold birds twitter

Where the leaf falls from the twig,

I sough and sing

that Love goes out

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