On the Oregon Express

LYING at ease within my curtained bed,
I watch the moonlit landscape glimmer by :
Soft-shadowed meadows, and the hills that lie
Around them, with a misty foliage spread;
Towns silent and adream ; and overhead
A sombre sky that stirs with such a grace
As flushed uncertainly the pallid face
Of Jairus’ daughter rising from the dead.

Far off, Mount Shasta swims into the view,
Its mist-hung summit towering over all;
The sun swings slow upon the mountain’s crest,
Against a sky that burns to orange hue,
And for a moment, like a silver ball
By hand of Titan flung, remains at rest.