Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,
From Provence to Paris—never fear—
All the heart can feel will understand.
III
Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;
A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,
That might shine round the Graal: and we
Stand very silent, underneath the pines.
O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!
Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,