for the winds drove
The living spray along the sunny air
Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,
Stripped to their depths by the awakening north;
And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth
Harmonising with solitude, and sent
Into our hearts aereal merriment.
So, as we rode, we talked.
So Shelley wrote, and then described how he crossed the Lido to the lagoon and looked on the sunset. And to this day there are few changes more impressive than when the traveller leaves the seashore, with the freshness of the waves and the solitude of the sea-beach in his heart, and, crossing to the other side, looks forth on the still slumber of the lagoon, and on the towers and peopled houses of the white and golden city, such a city—at the evening hour when all the sky behind is in a glory of crimson, pearl, and azure—as Galahad beheld when from the lofty cliff above the Ocean, he rode across the waves to be received at the glimmering gates with trumpets sounding, with songs and welcome by the angelic and the saintly host.
The Lido has its interest, but the greater charm belongs to the remoter islands, each alone in the waste of water, and with attractive names. It is their habit on slumbrous days to float in air and not on the water. A silver line of sunny mist stretches right across the base of the island, and on this it rests, as if it wished to join the sky. This sportive ethereality is one of the wanton wiles with which they bewilder the voyager’s imagination. Their names are romantic. San Lazzaro, Santa Elena, San Giacomo del Palude, San Francesco del Deserto, Il Spirito, La Grazia, San Giorgio in Alga. Each had its monastic church in ancient days, and from every part of the lagoon the bells then sweetly rang over the receptive water at morning, noon, and evening. Of all these monasteries only two remain, San Francesco del Deserto and San Lazzaro. Only in these is the Church still served, the cloister and the cells still intact, the garden still cultivated, the cypress and poplar garth still a place of musing; and only at San Francesco, by the corner of the isle that looks to Venice, is there one stone pine, a Tuscan stranger in the alien north. The rest of the small islands and their churches are desecrated, used for state and municipal purposes, with the exception of Torcello and Burano.