Page:Oregon, her history, her great men, her literature.djvu/351

350 But a golden arch forever shines

In the dim and darkening past.

Where I stand again as day declines.

And the world is bright and vast;

For the glory that lies along the lane

Is endeared with sweet perfume

And the world is ours, and we are twain

At the feast of apple bloom.

She was more than fair in the wreath she wore

Of the creamy buds and blows.

And she comes to me from the speechless shore

When the flowering orchard glows;

And I sigh for the dreams so sweet and swift.

That are laid in a sacred tomb—

That are nothing at least but fragrant drift

From the feast of apple bloom.

The campfire, like a red night rose.

Blossomed beneath a gloomy fir

When weary men, in deep repose,

Heard not the gentle night wind stir

Her priestly robes high overhead,

Heard not the wild brook's wailing song

Nor any nameless sounds of dread

Which to the midnight woods belong.

The moon sailed onm a golden bark

Astray in lilied purple seas,

While forest shadows, weirdly dark,

Were peopled with all mysteries;

And all was wild and drear and strange

Around that lonely bivouac,

Where mountains, rising range on range,

Shouldered the march of progress back.

The red fire's fluttering tongues of flame

Whispered to brooding darkness there,

While spectral shapes without a name

Were hovering in the haunted air;