And the wind from the north comes whistling down,
It is chill to rise with the morning star,
In the “City of Flowers”—in Florence town.
II
Light is the sleep of the old, for they know
How brief are their few remaining days;
But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long,
And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.
III
So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light,