| |
| THE PLAINS recede; the olives dwindle: | |
| The ilex and chestnut are left behind: | |
| The skirts of the billowy pinewoods kindle | |
| In the evening lights and the wind. | |
| Not here we sigh for the Alpine glory | 5 |
| Of peak primeval and death-pale snow: | |
| Not here for the cold green, and glacier hoary, | |
| Or the blue caves that yawn below. | |
| The landscape here is mature and mellow; | |
| Fruit-like, not flower-like;—long hills embrowned; | 10 |
| Gradations of violet purple and yellow | |
| From flushed stream to ridge church-crowned: | |
| ’T is a region of mystery, hushed and sainted: | |
| As still as the dreams of those artists old | |
| When the thoughts of Dante his Giotto painted:— | 15 |
| The summit is reached! Behold! | |
| Like a sky condensed lies the lake far down; | |
| It curves like the orbit of some fair planet! | |
| A fire-wreath falls on the cliffs that frown | |
| Above it,—dark walls of granite! | 20 |
| Thick-set, like an almond tree newly budded, | |
| The hillsides with homesteads and hamlets glow: | |
| With convent towers are the red rocks studded, | |
| With villages zoned below. | |
| Down drops by the island’s woody shores | 25 |
| The bannered barge with its rhythmic oars. | |
| |
