There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
skies
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.


Another heaven arched below us in which the Green mountains
joined their bases with still others that seemed like fairy
creations floating upon the water. An ideal remoteness and
perfection were thrown o'er the landscape by the crystalline
atmosphere. Mountains, fields, woods and lake all made "ethereal
pictures" in the mild evening light. Above in the blue dome,
Nature hung her finely woven drapery of rose-colored clouds,
whose glory was repeated by the unfathomable lake, seemingly as
deep as the blue dome it reflected. Its hues were not those of
earth, but were borrowed from heaven with which the poem of
evening was written on the twilight sky, for the delight of all
mankind.

Such scenes as this naturally call for comparisons, but having
seen but one that will in any measure compare with it, we shall
try to recall an evening on the Mediterranean.