But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young,
And his dreaming ears were loath to hear
The daybreak bell’s awakening tongue.
IV
For it seemed to speak with old Tafi’s voice,
“Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!”
Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor,
Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.
V
Busy all day with his quick, young hands,—