Lovely the Valley, green are its hill-flanks,
Jewel-colored streams sing dream-songs to Lillies,
Glittering dragonflies dance above reeds.
But this is no wild-land, no plow-virgin prairie.
Nor only a graveyard of lost heathen warriors.
Spirit is drowsing here, quick to awaken,
Gentle in slumber but fell to arouse.
Come now the shire-pilgrims, solemn and somber,
Pious and righteous and destiny-blind.
Nothing of Nature is safe from their plundering.
Slashing at sod-flesh, damming the river.
Hunting down cattle with no fear of man.
Fell mighty cottonwoods, older than memory.
Gather they high, and sing songs of praising
Gifts of a sky-god, not His to grant.
Rise now the Spirit-Beast, white is its color,
horn-ed and shaggy, winged and red-eyed,
Leading a battle-host, Dragonfly Warriors,
Clad in gilt armor and wielding cold fire.
Gossamer wing-ed, like crystal falcons,
Stoop on sod-busters too frightened to flee.
Day brings the War-host, weary and winded,
Come to defend, or come to avenge.
No sign of invasion, no batte-call greeting.
River untrammeled, brome-sod unscath-ed,
No stone is turn-ed, no tree is ax-scarred.
But high on one hilltop, warriors grow ashen;
The ground it is littered with stone dragonflies.