Page:Oregon, her history, her great men, her literature.djvu/359

358 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.