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.
WHEN THE BIRDS GO NORTH AGAIN
O, every year hath its winter,
And every year hath its rain;
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again.
When new leaves swell In the forest,
And grass springs green on the plain,
And the alder's veins turn crimson,
And the birds go north again.
Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
And every heart hath its pain;
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again.
'Tis the sweetest thing to remember,
If courage be on the wane,
When the cold, dark days are over—
Why, the birds go north again.
