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But there the analogy stopped. It hardly applied even so far. Between us and the rough dark-skirted wilderness of the high forests on Montserrat the infant frost had never trodden; all basked in the equal heat of the perpetual summer; awaiting, it may be, in ages to come, a civilisation higher even than that whose decay Shelley deplored as he looked down on fallen Italy.
'Beneath me lies like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, . . . . . Where a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved stone, Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright fruit is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines Piercing with their trellised lines The rough dark-skirted wilderness.
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