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Literature of Mount Shasta

On the Oregon Express

From The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 75, Issue 452, 1895

By Virna Woods

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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.

 

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