⁠Came laughing like Etrurian spring the third,
With green Valdelsa's hill-flowers in her hair
⁠Deep-drenched with May-dews, in her voice the bird
Whose voice hath night and morning in it; fair
⁠As the ambient gold of wall-flowers that engird
The walls engirdling with a circling stair
⁠My sweet San Gimignano: nor a word
⁠Fell from her flowerlike mouth
⁠Not sweet with all the south;
⁠As though the dust shrined in Certaldo stirred
⁠And spake, as o'er it shone
⁠That bright Pentameron,
⁠And his own vines again and chestnuts heard
⁠Boccaccio: nor swift Elsa's chime
Mixed not her golden babble with Petrarca's rhyme.