She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the beautiful,—
Who sang but thro’ bitterest envy their exquisite music,
Each for o’ercoming the other, as fierce as the seraphs
At the dread battle pre-mundane, together down-wrestling.
And once when the younger, surpassing the best at a festival,
Thrilled the impetuous people, O singing so rarely!
That up on their shoulders they raised him, and carried him straightway
Over the threshold, ’mid ringing of belfries and shouting,
Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like morning
(For he was Saxon in blood) that made more resplendent