Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops 10
Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air,
Lulling the leisure of that high perched town,
Aquapendente, in her lofty site
Its neighbour and its namesake—town, and flood
Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm 15
Bright sunbeams—the fresh verdure of this lawn
Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon’s verge,
O’er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze,
Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill