Stop and smell... the Columbines

For those of you who have today off (President's Day), I feel sorry for you. You missed your chance to commiserate with our east coast brethren during this morning's lovely commute. While Boston struggles to handle 10-12 feet of snow over the last several weeks only Denver can be brought to its knees by just a couple of inches of wet slushy snow. Of course, unlike those back in New England, just two days ago we were enjoying Denver temperatures in the high 60's and low 70's.

A hundred years ago Colorado was in the process of adopting its State Song written by Arthur John Flynn. "Where the Columbines Grow" was written by Flynn in 1909, first performed in 1911, and adopted as the official state song on May 8, by an act of the General Assembly - Senate Bill 308, 1915; Colorado Revised Statute 24-80-909. I know I'm ahead of myself, given that today is only February 16th and the song didn't become official until May but I had a definite case of Spring fever this morning as I was shoveling the walkway. For those of you who have never heard of the original Colorado song, or who perhaps thought that "Rocky Mountain High" by John  Denver was the one and only ("Rocky Mountain High" wasn't adopted as Colorado's 2nd State song until 2007) here is a nice rendition made by Dallin Burnett:

 

Where the snowy peaks gleam in the moonlight,
    Above the dark forests of pine,
    And the wild foaming waters dash onward,
    Toward lands where the tropic stars shine;
    Where the scream of the bold mountain eagle
    Responds to the notes of the dove
    Is the purple robed West, the land that is best,
    The pioneer land that we love.

    Tis the land where the columbines grow,
    Overlooking the plains far below,
    While the cool summer breeze in the evergreen trees
    Softly sings where the columbines grow.

    The bison is gone from the upland,
    The deer from the canyon has fled,
    The home of the wolf is deserted,
    The antelope moans for he is dead,
    The war whoop re-echoes no longer,
    The Indian's only a name,
    And the nymphs of the grove in their loneliness rove,
    But the columbine blooms just the same. Let the violet brighten the brookside,
    In sunlight of earlier spring,
    Let the fair clover bedeck the green meadow,
    In days when the orioles sing,
    Let the goldenrod herald the autumn,
    But, under the midsummer sky,
    In its fair Western home, may the columbine bloom
    Till our great mountain rivers run dry.