Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose song should syllable thy name! At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder