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