And he bored him a tunnel—rock and boulder, Out of a mountain’s granite shoulder, Chiseled his windows—arching wide, Glimpsing the sky and the rolling tide; Throwing his graceful spans across Dripping ravines of fern and moss; Charming the serpent up and down Till it lazily coiled on the lofty crown, Goal of each traveller who would be Thrilled with unspeakable ecstacy.
Oh climb in your chariots pink and green, Rattletrap Lizzie and limousine, Throbbing triumphantly toward the sky, (There’s never a grade but you take on high) Honking and honking, round on round, Honking again till the cliffs resound, Looping at last the Crown Point top— And there you stop! Where winds from the North, East, West and South Tumble their clouds in the chasm’s mouth— Curtains of mist and far-off thunder— And somehow you look and look and wonder If he who was wise to the sparrow’s fall Didn’t have something to do with it all.
Over the broad Willamette go Into the Coast Range—learn to know Who are the Vikings—see them rise Out of the gulches into the skies; There are plummet-lines dropped through the hearts of these And they’re girthed like the pillars of Hercules! Nursed by the centuries, still they stand, The Viking Spruce of the bottom-land.
And ever the pageant swings along, Blossoms and fruit and birds and song— Sword-ferns high-heaped beneath the firs, Glistening like emerald scimiters; Foxglove and fireweed—sunlight flashes Blotching the banks in purple splashes; Salmon berries in hordes untold— Luscious clusters of dangling gold; Elders above them, bending branches. Falling in ruby-red avalanches, Hedging the roadways, climbing back— Up through the alders and tamarack; And over the bridges, rumbling, coasting— Oh God of the Humble—keep us from boasting! Ranges, ruff-backed with their jagged trees, Crawling and sprawling down into the seas, Reaching their ragged, granite hands Out through the shifting, drifting sands— Out where the wild, white horses prance, Tossing their manes—and the cormorants Strut with the lions and blustering seals, And the sun-god reels With a splash of blood Into the great, Pacific flood!
And this is the welcome waiting you, Drivers of chariots gold and blue— You who fare Under the heavens from everywhere— This is the crowning of your quest When you’ve looked in the heart of the great Northwest!
[1] Reference to Samuel Lancaster, Portland, Oregon.
OREGON SNOW
I’ m glad I’m not in town today For townfolk always have a way Of hating snow—they stamp it off Their feet and shake their clothes and cough And fume and curse it every time It comes. It seems a crime To say you love it when it snows— Down in the town. Yet I suppose They’re not to blame—it always brings A peck of ills and heartache things Down in the town. There’s such A lot of misery—so much That sleeps along until the touch Of snow and cold wakes it again To sudden pain. You really can’t blame folks a bit For hating snow and cursing it The way they do Down in the town—it’s natural to.