Spring has long been a season associated with love. But in medieval Europe, men’s love for women was so ardent that it could change the season:
The woods have dressed themselves in foliage, now nightingales sing,
and with varied colors now the fields are welcoming.
Sweet it is to wander along wooded paths,
sweeter to pluck now the lily with the rose,
yet sweetest to play in love with a well-formed young woman.But when I ponder in my mind such delights,
I feel my vitals becoming anxious.
If she for whom I burn is cold and doesn’t wish to warm to me,
what then of birds’ singing, how can they be of value to me?
What then of spring’s proclaiming? Now is truly winter!