Then you said: "Let us go
Where the late violets blow
In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;—
We'll find she's there abiding."
Do we recall that day?
Has its grace passed away—
Its tenderest, dream-like tone,
Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air—
Has its fine perfume flown
And left the memory bare?
Not so; its charm is still
Over wood, vale and hill—
The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus,
The spirit that before us
Enticed us with delights
To the blue, breezy heights.
O, beautiful hills that stand
Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace
Of both to make you grand,—
Your loveliness leaves place
For nothing fairer, fair,
And complete beyond compare,
O, lovely purple hills! O, first day of November,
Be sure that I remember.
Salem. Or., 1869.
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