THE DECAMERON

Noon with a depth of shadow beneath the trees

Shakes in the heat, quivers to the sound of lutes:

Half shaded, half sunlit, a great bowl of fruits

Glistens purple and golden: the flasks of wine

Cool in their panniers of snow: silks muffle and shine:

Dim velvet, where through the leaves a sunbeam shoots,

Rifts in a pane of scarlet: fingers tapping the roots

Keep languid time to the music's soft slow decline.

Suddenly from the gate rises up a cry,

Hideous broken laughter, scarce human in sound;

Gaunt clawed hands, thrust through the bars despairingly,

Clutch fast at the scented air, while on the ground

Lie the poor plague-stricken carrions, who have found

Strength to crawl forth and curse the sunshine and die.