Huge silver snow-peaks, white as wool, Huge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in grass, And belly deep, and belly full, Their flower beds one fragrant mass Of flowers, grass tall-born and grand, Where flowers chase the flying snow! Oh, high held land in God's right hand, Delicious, dreamful Idaho! We rode the rolling cow-sown hills, That bearded cattle man and I; Below us laughed the blossomed rills, Above the dappled clouds blew by. We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir, Three-fourths of all men's time they keep To talk, to think, to @3be@1 of HER; The other fourth they give to sleep. To learn what he might know, or how, I laughed all constancy to scorn. "Behold yon happy, changeful cow! Behold this day, all storm at morn, Yet now 'tis changed by cloud and sun, Yea, all things change -- the heart, the head, Behold on earth there is not one That changeth not in love," I said. He drew a glass, as if to scan The steeps for steers; raised it and sighed. He craned his neck, this cattle man, Then drove the cork home and replied: "For twenty years (forgive these tears), For twenty years no word of strife -- I have not known for twenty years One folly from my faithful wife." I looked that tarn man in the face -- That dark-browed, bearded cattle man. He pulled his beard, then dropped in place A broad right hand, all scarred and tan, And toyed with something shining there Above his holster, bright and small. I was convinced. I did not care To agitate his mind at all. But rest I could not. Know I must The story of my stalwart guide; His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blessed and most wondrous bride. I wondered, marveled, marveled much; Was she of Western growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that wife with such Eternal truth and constancy? I could not rest until I knew -- "Now twenty years, my man," I said, "Is a long time." He turned, he drew A pistol forth, also a sigh. "'Tis twenty years or more," sighed he. "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me truly how?" "'Twould make a poem, pure and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land Should stand out like some winter star. America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea -- 'Twould make them truer, nobler men To know how this might truly be." "'Tis twenty years or more," urged he; "Nay, that I know, good guide of mine; But lead me where this wife may be, And I a pilgrim at a shrine, And kneeling as a pilgrim true" -- He, leaning, shouted loud and clear: "I cannot show my wife to you; She's dead this more than twenty year." |