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A little valley in the Apennine: It lay amid the heights—a resting place Of quiet and deep beauty. On one side A forest of a thousand pines arose, Darkened with many winters; on the left Stood the steep-crags, where, even in July, The white snow lay, carved into curious shapes Of turret, pinnacle, and battlement; And in the front, the opening mountains showed The smiling plains of grape-clad Tuscany; And farther still was caught the sky-like sweep Of the blue ocean. Small white cottages And olive trees filled up the dell. But, hid By the sole group of cypresses, whose boughs, As the green weeping of the sea-weed, hung Like grief or care around, a temple stood