Their house among the hills was shut in by a row of plane-trees in which by day the cicale were shrill; at evening fireflies lit up their garden.

The green rushing river--"a flashing scimitar that cuts through the mountain"-- the chestnut woods, the sheep-walks, "the villages on the peaks of the mountains like wild eagles," renewed their former delights.
On the longer excursions Browning slackened his footsteps to keep pace with his wife's donkey; basins of strawberries and cream refreshed the wanderers after their exertion.

"Oh those jagged mountains," exclaims Mrs Browning, "rolled together like pre-Adamite beasts, and setting their teeth against the sky....

You may as well guess at a lion by a lady's lap-dog as at Nature by what you see in England.

All honour to England, lanes and meadowland, notwithstanding.