Arizona is peerless, her breezes are soft,
And mostly her sky is surprisingly fair,
For “the sweet little cherub” on duty aloft,
Controlling the tricks of the ambient air,
Is vigilant always–good-natured enough
In doing his meteorological stunts;
Yet sometimes we think, when the weather is rough,
That he tries to dispense all his product at once.
Far down the broad continent’s vertebral line
Old Boreas batters the earth with his flail–
The heavy snows fall in the forests of pine,
And the zephyrs give way to the bellowing gale.
But here, in the Salt River valley below,
The air is as warm as the breath of a child,
Not even the tiniest flakelets of snow
Suggesting the winter, uncanny and wild.
The roses are with us the round rolling year,
As rich and as regal as Persia can boast–
Every flower that is found in the Valeof Cashmere
Abloom at its best when we prize it the most.
And then–the ripe oranges, certainly these,
So large and so luscious, so yellow and bright,
Are the apples of gold from Hesperides,
Grown only where life is a dream of delight.
In lauding the charms of this marvelous land,
The green of her valleys, the fruit of her vines,
Her beautiful mountains, her scenery grand,
Her herds and her orchards, the wealth of her mines,
The worth of her people, we make no mistake,
For the whole world attests what so long has been true–
Arizona was worthy and ready to take
Her place on the roll with her star in the blue.