Traveller's Joy

By the pass of the Coquahalla, Where the roadbed snakes and clings To the soaring perilous rockface— Where an eagle needs his wings;

Down through the wooded canyons Of the Otter and Tulameen, Where first October wanders Pale gold through the sombre green;

You will come to the Okanagan, And meet a breath of the South, Where the wind that brings fair weather Comes up from the valley's mouth.

You may ride to the gates of morning On slopes of yellow pine And flats of sage and greasewood, In a country I call mine.

You may camp in the open timber On the level-floored plateaus, When sunset dyes the tree trunks Cinnamon, purple and rose,

While blued in the smoke of evening The pink-gray ranges rise,— With the piney smell in your nostrils, And your heart in Paradise.