The rhythm is too tricky to be caught at the first reading, or even at the fifth reading; there is only part of it in my copy.
Briefly bursteth season brisk, Blasty north breeze racketh branch, Branches rasp each branch on each Tearing twig and tearing leafage, Chirms now no bird nor cries querulous; So Love demands I make outright A song that no song shall surpass For freeing the heart of sorrow.
Love is glory's garden close, And is a pool of prowess staunch Whence get ye many a goodly fruit If true man come but to gather. Dies none frost bit nor yet snowily, For true sap keepeth off the blight Unless knave or dolt there pass....
The second point of interest is the lengthening out of the rhyme in _piula, niula_, etc. In the fourth strophe we find:
The gracious thinking and the frank Clear and quick perceiving heart Have led me to the fort of love. Finer she is, and I more loyal Than were Atlanta and Meleager.
Then the quiet conclusion, after the noise of the opening, Pensar de lieis m'es repaus:
To think of her is my rest And both of my eyes are strained wry When she stands not in their sight, Believe not the heart turns from her, For nor prayers nor games nor violing Can move me from her a reed's-breadth.
The most beautiful passages of Arnaut are in the canzo beginning:
Doutz brais e critz, Lais e cantars e voutas Aug dels auzels qu'en lor latins fant precs Quecs ab sa par, atressi cum nos fam A las amigas en cui entendem; E doncas ieu qu'en la genssor entendi Dei far chansson sobre totz de bell' obra Que noi aia mot fais ni rima estrampa.
Sweet cries and cracks and lays and chants inflected By auzels who, in their Latin belikes, Chirm each to each, even as you and I Pipe toward those girls on whom our thoughts attract; Are but more cause that I, whose overweening Search is toward the Noblest, set in cluster Lines where no word pulls wry, no rhyme breaks gauges.
No culs de sacs nor false ways me deflected When first I pierced her fort within its dykes, Hers, for whom my hungry insistency Passes the gnaw whereby was Vivien wracked;[9] Day-long I stretch, all times, like a bird preening, And yawn for her, who hath o'er others thrust her As high as true joy is o'er ire and rages.