Here is a girl deploring the absence of her lover:
“Il a au jour d’ui un mois
Que mon ami s’en ala.
Mon cuer remaint morne et cois,
Il a au jour d’ui un mois.
‘A Dieu,’ me dit, ‘je m’en vois;’
Ne puis a moy ne parla,
Il a au jour d’ui un mois.”[1]
Here are words of consolation, addressed to a lover:
“Mon ami, ne plourez plus;
Car tant me faittes pitié
Que mon cuer se rent conclus
A vostre doulce amistié.
Reprenez autre maniere;
Pour Dieu, plus ne vous doulez,
Et me faittes bonne chiere:
Je vueil quanque vous voulez.”[2]
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What gives these verses their abiding womanly charm is their spontaneous tenderness, their simplicity devoid of all pomp and pretension. Christine was content to follow the inspiration of her heart. But this is also the reason why her poems so often show the defect, characteristic of the poetry and music of all epochs of feeble inspiration, that of exhausting all their vigour in the opening lines. How many poems do we find with a fresh and striking theme, which begin like a blackbird’s song, only to lose themselves in thin rhetoric after the first stanza! The poet (or in music, the composer), after stating his theme, had
- ↑ It is a month to-day Since my lover departed. My heart remains gloomy and silent. It is a month to-day. “Good-bye,” he said, “I am going;” Since then he has not spoken to me. It is a month to-day.
- ↑ Friend, weep no more; For I am so touched with pity That my heart gives itself up To your sweet friendship. Change your bearing; For God’s sake, be sad no longer. And show me a cheerful face: I am willing whatever you will.
And as you came back safe and sound We shall have joy enough; now be appeased And tell me if you know by how much The grief you had from it exceeds That which my heart has suffered, For of this I want to have an account.
—More grief than you, as I think, I had, but tell me without miscalculation, How many kisses shall I have for it? For of this I want to have an account.
