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"Maju torna, maju veni Cu li belli soi ciureri; Oh chi pompa chi nni fa; Maju torna, maju è cc
The voice was speaking now with a sort of whimsical and half-pathetic merriment, as if inclined to break into laughter at its own childish wistfulness. "M'ama; nun m'ama?" It broke off. He heard a little laugh. Then the song began again: "Maju viju, e maju cògghiu, Bona sorti di Diù vògghiu; Ciuri di maju cògghiu a la campía, Diù, pinz
The star that seemed caught in the sea smiled at him, summoned him. Its gold was like the gold, the little feathers of gold in the dark hair of a Sicilian girl singing the song of the May beside the sea: "Maju torna, maju veni Cu li belli soi ciureri " He tried to hum the tune, but it had left his memory. He longed to hear it once more under the olive-trees of the Sirens' Isle.
There was an African sound in the girl's voice a sound of mystery that suggested heat and a force that could be languorous and stretch itself at ease. She was singing the song the Sicilian peasant girls join in on the first of May, when the ciuri di maju is in blossom, and the young countrywomen go forth in merry bands to pick the flower of May, and, turning their eyes to the wayside shrine, or, if there be none near, to the east and the rising sun, lift their hands full of the flowers above their heads, and, making the sign of the cross, murmur devoutly: "Divina Pruvidenza, pruvvidìtimi; Divina Pruvidenza, cunsul
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