Page:Oregon, her history, her great men, her literature.djvu/346

Rh On the roaring waste of ocean

Shall thy scattered waves be tossed,

'Mid the surge's rhythmic thunder

Shall thy silver tongues be lost.

O! thy glimmering rush of gladness

Mocks this turbid life of mine!

Racing to the wild Forever

Down the sloping paths of Time!

Onward ever,

Lovely river,

Softly calling to the sea;

Time that scars us,

Maims and mars us,

Leaves no track or trench on thee.

Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow

Whitens the gloaming, and in the street's glow

Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth—

Pale in life's brightness, and still in its mirth;

Swarming and settling like spirits of bees

Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees—

Blown with the petals of dreams we have known,

Rosy with heart dews of days that are gone.

Spirits of flowers, and spectres of bees—

Emblems of toil and its guerdon are these—

Thrown to us silently—cold, and so fair—

From the gardens that gleam in the regions of air;

As if the high heavens that gathered our sighs

Wept for the promise the future denies;—

Dreamingly lifted the glowing bouquet,

Sweet with life's longing, and tossed it away!

Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon

Wreathing the world in a twilight of June,

Gently and lovingly hastens the snow—

Weaving a veil for dead nature below;

Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street,

Folding the town in a slumber so sweet,

Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold,

Pensively linger and love to behold.