Upon the Rhône we drift, where morning’s fingers gild The river’s silver breast and wake the willows still; From Arles, where Roman stones and old renown remain, To Beaucaire’s rocky watch above the steely main.

At Barthelasse, broad and green, the quiet orchards lie, While Avignon, with papal crown, lifts towers to the sky; Her bridge half-gone, her walls yet whole, her cloisters old and fair,
Keeps time as though the centuries had tangled in her hair.

Then Châteauneuf, wine-throned and warm beneath the sun, Where popes once raised a castle, and their earthly days were done;
Then Ancone small, and Viviers high in bishop’s proud array, Where cathedrals guard the cliffs and bless the traveler’s way.

Châteauneuf-du-Rhône and Coucourde, Le Pouzin in turn, La Voulte with its river-bend where hidden embers burn; Then Tournon’s keep, Saint-Jean-de-Muzols, and Gervans by the vine, Serves, Arras, Ozon—each shore a note in nature’s line.

So onward sails the longship, sleek as legend’s carved device, Through France’s heart of stone and grape, through water, wind, and spice;
And as the Rhône flows seaward on, so in our hearts shall stay The hush of dusk on ancient banks and dawn on every day.