IN THE VALLEY OF LUCHON

DAY long, and night long,
     From the soaring peaks and the snow,
Down through the valley villages
     The cold white waters flow.

Quiet are the villages;

     And very quiet the cloud
At rest on the breast of the mountain;
     But the falling waves are loud

Through the little, clustering cottages,
     Through the little, climbing fields,

Where every sunburnt vineyard
     Its patch of purple yields.

High hung, a steel-bright scimitar,
     The crooked glacier gleams.
The white church in the valley

     Where the red oleander dreams.

And every wonder of beauty
     Comes, as a dream comes, true,
Where the sun drips rose from the ledges
     And the moon by the peak swims blue.