Wafter of odors sweet on summer’s breeze;
Warrior of winter’s sleet and biting freeze—
O, I would honor thee.
And I would reverence thee, thou hoary one,
Thou who hast stood while centuries have run,
Thou who hast seen the Indian lover stand
While virgin moon smiled down on virgin land—
The ax, the rifle of the pioneer—
All these have passed, and all had left thee here—
And I would reverence thee.