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And this is the welcome waiting you, Drivers of chariots gold and blue— You who fare Under the heavens from everywhere— This is the crowning of your quest When you’ve looked in the heart of the great Northwest!

ssss1 Reference to Samuel Lancaster, Portland, Oregon.

ssss1

I’m glad I’m not in town today For townfolk always have a way Of hating snow—they stamp it off Their feet and shake their clothes and cough And fume and curse it every time It comes. It seems a crime To say you love it when it snows— Down in the town. Yet I suppose They’re not to blame—it always brings A peck of ills and heartache things Down in the town. There’s such A lot of misery—so much That sleeps along until the touch Of snow and cold wakes it again To sudden pain. You really can’t blame folks a bit For hating snow and cursing it The way they do Down in the town—it’s natural to.

In great cascades of blinding white Shot through with light Of morning suns.

But here—up here, it’s driving white Across the gray tree-trunks; all night It fell and laid one blanket more Upon the store We had. And I am glad, For here—up here, it’s not a crime To love the snow in winter-time.