 | The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |  |
A SONG OF SAVOY.
As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain's purple crest,
And Summer's white and folded clouds
Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.
The mountain's purple crest,
And Summer's white and folded clouds
Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.
Faint is the goatherd's song,
And sighing comes the breeze:
The silent river sweeps along
Amid its bending trees—
And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.
And sighing comes the breeze:
The silent river sweeps along
Amid its bending trees—
And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.
Beneath the waving firs
The tinkling cymbals sound;
And as the wind the foliage stirs,
I see the dancers bound
Where the green branches, arched above,
Bend over this fair scene of love.
The tinkling cymbals sound;
And as the wind the foliage stirs,
I see the dancers bound
Where the green branches, arched above,
Bend over this fair scene of love.
And he is there, that sought
My young heart long ago!
But he has left me—though I thought
He ne'er could leave me so.
Ah! lovers' vows—how frail are they!
And his—were made but yesterday.
My young heart long ago!
But he has left me—though I thought
He ne'er could leave me so.
Ah! lovers' vows—how frail are they!
And his—were made but yesterday.
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Why comes he not? I call
In tears upon him yet;
'T were better ne'er to love at all,
Than love, and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.
In tears upon him yet;
'T were better ne'er to love at all,
Than love, and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.
But see—he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:
He comes to seek his mountain maid!
I cannot chide his stay.
Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.
And beckons me away:
He comes to seek his mountain maid!
I cannot chide his stay.
Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.
| The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |