Formes Fixes

Rondeau.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?

A different kind of measure
reason applies.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.

Although it would be a pleasure,
learning their sighs,
there still would be subtle changes.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?


Ballade.

I knew the depths of terror in a man
tormented by the heart within his chest.
It came along, no matter where he ran:
there was no place that he could find to rest.
Finally, on a mountain in the west,
he took a thousand swords, and he began
driving them in. He flung away his heart.
Floating upon the sea, it seemed a jest,
for as it left his hands, he died, apart.

I felt an envy far more biting than
any I've known: oblivion seemed best.
But I know peace; I weep now, when I can,
for his cessation, his abandoned quest.
He is no longer writhing in that test,
for he is nothing, safely in the clan
of this content and guarded from the dart,
striving no more, in Paradise, and blessed.
He has surrendered! It must always smart.

Torment within my soul has woven an
acid of terror. How could I have guessed?
Agony has these finger-claws to span
over my face. But, oh! I have confessed;
I may invite sweet torture as a guest.
Desperate, I may nullify the ban.
I am not strong, nor can I hope to start
battling this. Though I am sorely pressed,
without such pain, I cannot think of Art.


Virelai.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.

I do nothing else but weep,
except to creep
on my knees and pray anew.

The things I've wanted are a heap,
enduring, steep,
of my sins, forgotten, too,

with the vain rewards I'll reap,
lost within my prayer. I'd leap
with a joy profound and cheap
if your happiness were true.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.