Francis Turner Palgrave

In the Valley of the Grande Chartreuse

TORRENT under lofty beeches, under larches cresting high;
Wanderer by the wandering stranger slipping softly, surely by;

Born among Savoyan snows and where St. Bruno, hid with God,
Far from kindly human love, the road of tears and rapture trod;

Joining then the valley-streamlet, then the golden-green Isère,
Then where Rhone’s broad current to the blue their lordly burden bear;—

Torrent under lofty beeches, under larches cresting high,
Thou art southward set, and southward all thy waters strain and fly,—

Sunny South,—o’er slope and summit the gray mist of olive spread.
Terrace high o’er terrace climbing, lines of white, vine-garlanded.

Ah, another vision calls me, calls me to the Northern isle,—
Voices from beyond the mountain, smiles that dim the sun’s own smile,—

And I set my soul against thee, water of the Southern sea:
Thine are not the currents toward the haven where my heart would be.

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