Through Chiavennaʼs myrtle trees,
And oʼer the green hillsʼ viny spread,
That rose in many a rounded head
Beneath the Alpine rocks of red.
And the fresh snow had fallʼn that night,
And sprinkled with its mantle white
The mountain amphitheatre
That rose around us far and near, 1
Though in such far confusion hurled
They looked to rule oʼer all the world;
And the white clouds seemed to immerse
Another ruined universe.