The Ascent of the Apennines

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

  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;

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:—

  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!

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

The bannered barge with its rhythmic oars.