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 cañon―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.
“The Grand Ronde Valley” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).