Classic Poem

The light guitar, the light guitar!
I hear its tinkling sound afar,
Where underneath the evening star
The dance is wheeling;
And many a laugh, and many a shout,
The busy echoes toss about,
Till joyous with the merry rout
The hills are pealing.

The light guitar,—I know it well;
I heard it first when evening fell
Around the vine-embowered well
By Rhone's broad river.
Joy to thy valleys, gay Provence!
Thou sunny paradise of France;
Carols at eve, and song and dance,
Are thine for ever.

The light guitar,—it sends me where
A living glory fills the air,
And all of gay and bright and fair
Is full to flowing.
Below me sleeps the purple sea,
Above me clouds of amber flee,
And gold on every tower and tree
And spire is glowing.

The light guitar,—its warning sound
Maiden and youth are thronging round,
With song and shout, and leap and bound,—
No dream of sorrow.
Away with grief, away with care!
Glad thoughts alone are welcome there;
They care not, if or dark or fair
May rise the morrow.

Then glory to the light guitar,—
Its holiest time the evening star,
When liquid voices echo far
By rock and river.
O, might such heavenly nights be mine,
Where overhead the rambling vine
Lets quivering through the bright moonshine,
By Rhone for ever!