Autumn in Oregon is wet as Spring, <br />And green, with little singings in the grass, <br /> And pheasants flying, <br />Gold, green and red, <br />Great, narrow, lovely things, <br />As if an orchid had snatched wings. <br />There are strange birds like blots against a sky <br /> Where a sun is dying. <br />Beyond the river where the hills are blurred <br />A cloud, like the one word <br />Of the too-silent sky, stirs, and there stand <br /> Black trees on either hand. <br />Autumn in Oregon is wet and new <br /> As Spring, <br />And puts a fever like Spring's in the cheek <br />That once has touched her dew -- <br />And it puts longing too <br />In eyes that once have seen <br />Her season-flouting green, <br /> And ears that listened to her strange birds speak. <br /> <br />Autumn in Oregon -- I'll never see <br />Those hills again, a blur of blue and rain <br />Across the old Willamette. I'll not stir <br />A pheasant as I walk, and hear it whirr <br />Above my head, an indolent, trusting thing. <br />When all this silly dream is finished here, <br />The fellows will go home to where there fall <br />Rose-petals over every street, and all <br />The year is like a friendly festival. <br />But I shall never watch those hedges drip <br />Color, not see the tall spar of a ship <br />In our old harbor. -- They say that I am dying, <br />Perhaps that's why it all comes back again: <br />Autumn in Oregon and pheasants flying --<br /><br />Mary Carolyn Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smith-of-the-third-oregon-dies/
