In the Valley of Luchon by Charles G. D. Roberts

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.

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