The clenchéd lip, the gaze of doom,
The hollow-resounding dungeon-gloom,
All fade and cease, as, mass and line,
I shadow the sweep of Apennine,
And from my olive palette take
The marvellous pigments, flake by flake.
With azure, pearl, and silver white,
The purple of bloom and malachite,
Ceiling, wall, and iron door,
When the grim guard goes, I picture o'er.
E'en where his shadow falls athwart
The sunlight of noon, I've a glory wrought,—
Have shaped the gloom and golden shine
To image my gleaming Apennine.
No cruel Alpine heights are there,
Dividing the depths of pallid air;
But sea-blue liftings, far and fine,
With driftings of pearl and coralline;
And domes of marble, every one
All ambered o'er by setting sun;—