The Feast of St. John
A man goes twanging a mandoline down in the valley,
A girl sings late
By the city gate,
A chorus rings from the wine-shop, there, in the alley,
(O crael voices, cruel music making,
I cannot sleep and am so sick of waking!)
The lanterns strung in the Piazza burn scarlet and yellow.
They swing and shine
In a fiery line;
The fire-flies flit thro' the fields where the corn is mellow.
(Already in the East, alas, the morrow
Pales with the sick renewal of "sorrow.)
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