The sun sinks downward thro' the silver mist
⁠That looms across the valley, fold on fold,
And sliding thro' the fields that dawn has kissed,
⁠Willamette sweeps, a chain of liquid gold.

​Trails onward ever, curving as it goes.
⁠Past many a hill and many a flowered lea.
Until it pauses where Columbia flows.
⁠Deep-tongued, deep-chested, to the waiting sea.

O lovely vales thro' which Willamette slips!
⁠O vine-clad hills that hear its soft voice call!
My heart turns ever to those sweet, cool lips
⁠That, passing, press each rock or grassy wall.

Thro' pasture lands, where mild-eyed cattle feed.
⁠Thro' marshy flats, where velvet tules grow,
Past many a rose tree, many a singing reed.
⁠I hear those wet lips calling, calling low.

The sun sinks downward thro' the trembling haze.
⁠The mist flings glistening needles higher and higher.
And thro' the clouds—O fair beyond all praise!
⁠Mount Hood leaps, chastened, from a sea of fire.