Between the pale blue of the morning sky
And the soft, deeper violet of the hill
Mount Hood stands like a virgin, white and still.
The purple mists across the valley lie,
Run thro’ and thro’ with primrose lances―ay,
With rose and amethyst. Sweet, loud and shrill,
With little swelling throats, the dawn-birds trill
Their glad hearts out in praise; and proud and high,
The sun vibrates into the blue, and sets
Willamette burning like a chain of brass,
And all the steeples into silhouettes
Of flame against the sky. Up from the grass
A pilgrim skylark soars, and throbbing higher,
Shakes all the air with passion and desire.
“Dawn on the Willamette” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).