Classic Poem

She sleeps betwixt the mountains and the sea,
In that great Abbey of the setting sun:
A Princess, Poet, Woman, three in one;
And fine in every measure of the three.
And when we needed most her tragic plea
Against ignoble summits we had won,
While yet her muse was warm, her lyric young,
She passed to realms of purer poesy.
To-night she walks a trail past Lillooet:
Past wood and stream; yea, past the Dawn's white fire,
And now the craft on Shadow River fret
For one small blade that led their mystic choir.
But nevermore will Night's responsive strings
Awaken to the “Song her Paddle Sings.”