Paved with the image of the sky ... the hoar
    And aery Alps towards the North appeared
    Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark reared
    Between the East and West; and half the sky
    Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry
    Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew
    Down the steep West into a wondrous hue
    Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent
    Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent
    Among the many-folded hills:  they were
    Those famous Euganean hills, which bear,
    As seen from Lido thro’ the harbour piles,
    The likeness of a clump of peaked isles—­
    And then—­as if the Earth and Sea had been
    Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen
    Those mountains towering as from waves of flame
    Around the vaporous sun, from which there came
    The inmost purple spirit of light, and made
    Their very peaks transparent.

Browning never tired, says Mrs. Bronson, of this evening view from the Lido, and always held that these lines by Shelley were the best description of it.

The poem goes on to describe a visit to the madhouse of S. Clemente and the reflections that arose from it.  Towards the close Shelley says:—­

    If I had been an unconnected man
    I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
    Never to leave sweet Venice,—­for to me
    It was delight to ride by the lone sea;
    And then, the town is silent—­one may write
    Or read in gondolas by day or night,
    Having the little brazen lamp alight,
    Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there. 
    Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
    Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
    We seek in towns, with little to recall
    Regrets for the green country.

Later in 1818 Mrs. Shelley joined her daughter in Venice, but it was a tragic visit, for their daughter Clara died almost immediately after they arrived.  She is buried on the Lido.

In a letter to Peacock, Shelley thus describes the city:  “Venice is a wonderfully fine city.  The approach to it over the laguna, with its domes and turrets glittering in a long line over the blue waves, is one of the finest architectural delusions in the world.  It seems to have—­and literally it has—­its foundations in the sea.  The silent streets are paved with water, and you hear nothing but the dashing of the oars, and the occasional cries of the gondolieri.  I heard nothing at Tasso.  The gondolas themselves are things of a most romantic and picturesque appearance; I can only compare them to moths of which a coffin might have been the chrysalis.  They are hung with black, and painted black, and carpeted with grey; they curl at the prow and stern, and at the former there is a nondescript beak of shining steel, which glitters at the end of its long black mass.