To stop—no record hath told where!”
He sees the gentle mists
“Curling with unconfirmed intent
On that green mountain’s side.”
He watches the swan swimming on Lake Lucarno,—
“Behold!—as with a gushing impulse heaves
That downy prow, and softly cleaves
The mirror of the crystal flood,
Vanish inverted hill and shadowy wood.”
He catches sight of the fluttering green linnet among the hazel-trees: