Looking down from this sunny height,
Over the heather that smells so sweet,
(The Provence heather, with blossoms white,)
Far away, where the waters meet
The luminous sky-line, I lie and gaze.
You can hardly tell in that melting haze,
Where the sapphire sea and the sky have met,
Or where the glittering sun will set,
Beyond the curves of the silver bays.
Ah! brightly they sparkle, the burnished waves,
And softly the breeze in the pine-trees plays,
And much is forgotten; yet memory saves
This fair, golden picture of thee, oh, Provence,
Long ago — in the sunny days.