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 dreams 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.