  Mildly through the mists of night Floats a breath of flowers sweet, Warmly through the waning light Wafts a wind with perfumed feet, Down the gorge and mountain brook, With the sound of wings—Chinook! By no trail his spirits go, Through the mountain-passes high, Where the moon is on the snow And the screaming eagles fly, Where the yawning canyon roars With memories of misty shores. On still prairies, mountain-locked, Frost lies white upon the grass, But where the witch of winter walked, Now the summer’s masquers pass; And at May’s refreshing breath Tender flowers rose from death. And the breeze, that on the Coast Wakened softly at the morn, Is on snowy prairies lost When the twilight pales forlorn; Sweet Chinook! who breathes betimes Summer’s kiss in winter climes. |
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