The Grand Ronde Valley

Ah me! I know how like a golden flower The Grand Ronde valley lies this August night, Locked in by dimpled hills where purple light Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour Sink downward, like a rainbow-tinted shower, A thousand colored rays, soft, changeful, bright. Later the large moon rises, round and white, And three Blue Mountain pines against it tower, Lonely and dark. A coyote’s mournful cry Sinks from the canon,—whence the river leaps A blade of silver underneath the moon. Like restful seas the yellow wheat-fields lie, Dreamless and still. And while the valley sleeps, O hear!—the lullabies that low winds croon.