Poems (Hoffman)/Ione Valley

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman

IONE VALLEY

Bright rainbow hues, that paint the scene,
Where childish eyes first gaze,
Though mists of time may intervene
To dim your brightest rays;
Yet through those mists, bright sunbeams shine,
That long ago have shone.
Thy memories are forever mine,
Fair Valley of Ione.

Thy flowers, like benedictions sweet,
In fields of fancy grow;
As once they nodded at my feet
In that fair long ago;
And still imagination strays
Through grain-fields, zephyr-blown;
As in thy Summer's golden days,
Fair Valley of Ione.

Thy roses, wet with nature's tears,
Round memory's urn are twined;
They strew the pathway of the years,
The cloisters of the mind.
Their velvet petals, crimson red,
Lie strewn by fancy thrown;
Where thoughts of thee are wont to tread,
Fair Valley of Ione.

From censers, wrought of sunbeam gold,
Thy lilac's incense burn;
And apple-blossoms sweet unfold,
Round memory's golden urn;
And happy birds and honey bees,
Still chant in joyous tone;
Among the vines and locust trees,
Fair Valley of Ione.

Thy purple clustering grapes are bright
With never fading dyes,
Thy cherries, steeped in yellow light,
To match thy sunset skies;
And russet pears and apricots
To blushing ripeness grown;
Brightened thy shady orchard plots,
Fair Valley of Ione.

But like the mildew on the rose,
A blight forever there,
Thy charms of rosy bloom, unclose
To miasmatic air;
Yet we, who for the rose of health
To other climes have flown;
May sing of all thy golden wealth,
Fair Valley of Ione.

The wire-bridge, stretched from bank to bank
Across the brimming creek;
The hill, with wild-flowers growing rank
The childish hands to pick;
The goats that clambered up the rock,
Rich meadows newly-mown;
And Fido, barking down the walk,
Are scenes of thine, Ione.

Ye foothills of Sierra's Range,
Green be your sunny slopes!
Ye fertile fields, where never change
In recollection gropes;
Ye banks and rocks and fences old,
With moses overgrown;
Of sunbeams be your settings, gold,
Fair Valley of Ione.

Could I but wander to and fro
'Midst fairest scenes to roam,
I'd take the wings of morn and go
To childhood's valley home.
The bird, with freedom in its breast,
Though lured from zone to zone;
Returns to find its earliest nest,
Fair Valley of Ione.