Madrugada a mais garrida,
Que baila o sol cando nace
E ri cando morre o dia.
(The morning of St. John,
Fairest of all the year,
For the sun at its rising dances
And laughs when the day dies.)
Even at Lisbon St. John’s night is celebrated with genuine enthusiasm, and the dark blue flower of the artichoke abounds in the markets.
The Bull-fight.