There was a time when I could half read poetry in various ancient forms of French, provençal or Occitan, at least enough to have the sense of their meaning and loveliness.  This is one I noted decades ago, which is no time at all if you consider that it dates from the 11th or 12th century.

A sweet anonymous acknowledgement of the timeless magic of spring and emerging summer.


Ce fu en mai el novel tens d’esté; florissent bois et verdissent cil pré.

It was in May at the beginning of summer; the woods were full of blossom and the fields were turning green.


Photo credit: Benoit Gauzeres at


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