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.