At last, at last, a change stole over the form and features of the indefatigable dancer.  Her companions, overcome with fatigue, had long ago sunk to the ground, where, with their little ruffled heads resting on any bit of marble, they lay sleeping calmly like little children.  Only the mother still watched and prayed for her child, the unnatural tension of whose nerves and muscles now seemed visibly to relax; for the mad light of exaltation in her eyes veiled itself in softness, her feet moved more and more slowly, and her arms, which had heretofore been in constant motion, dropped languidly to her side.  I too relaxed in my tempo, and the thrilling, vivacious tune melted away in a dying strain.

At the expiring notes, when I had but one string left, her tired eyes closed as in gentlest sleep, a smile hovered about her lips, her head sank heavily forward on her bosom, and she would have fallen had not her mother received the swooning form into her outstretched arms.

At the same moment my last string snapped, a swarming darkness clouded my sight, the violin fell from my wet, burning hands, and I reeled back, faint and dizzy, when I felt soft arms embracing me, and somebody sobbed and laughed, “You have saved her, Maestro; praise be to God and all His saints in heaven!  May the Madonna bless you forever and ever—­” I heard no more, but fell into a death-like swoon.

     “O MOON, LARGE GOLDEN SUMMER MOON!”

     O MOON, large golden summer moon,
       Hanging between the linden trees,
       Which in the intermittent breeze
     Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!

     O night-air, scented through and through
       With honey-colored flower of lime,
       Sweet now as in that other time
     When all my heart was sweet as you!

     The sorcery of this breathing bloom
       Works like enchantment in my brain,
       Till, shuddering back to life again,
     My dead self rises from its tomb.

     And lovely with the love of yore,
       Its white ghost haunts the moon-white ways;
       But when it meets me face to face,
     Flies trembling to the grave once more.

     GREEN LEAVES AND SERE

     Three tall poplars beside the pool
       Shiver and moan in the gusty blast;
     The carded clouds are blown like wool,
       And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast.

     The leaves, now driven before the blast,
       Now flung by fits on the curdling pool,
     Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last
       As if at the whim of a jabbering fool.

     O leaves, once rustling green and cool! 
       Two met here where one moans aghast
     With wild heart heaving towards the past: 
       Three tall poplars beside the pool.

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

(1313-1375)