Sunrise on the Willamette
SUNRISE ON THE WILLAMETTE
The sun sinks downward thro' the silver mist
That looms across the valley, fold on fold,
And sliding thro' the fields that dawn has kissed,
Willamette sweeps, a chain of liquid gold.
Trails onward ever, curving as it goes.
Past many a hill and many a flowered lea.
Until it pauses where Columbia flows.
Deep-tongued, deep-chested, to the waiting sea.
O lovely vales thro' which Willamette slips!
O vine-clad hills that hear its soft voice call!
My heart turns ever to those sweet, cool lips
That, passing, press each rock or grassy wall.
Thro' pasture lands, where mild-eyed cattle feed.
Thro' marshy flats, where velvet tules grow,
Past many a rose tree, many a singing reed.
I hear those wet lips calling, calling low.
The sun sinks downward thro' the trembling haze.
The mist flings glistening needles higher and higher.
And thro' the clouds—O fair beyond all praise!
Mount Hood leaps, chastened, from a sea of fire.