WE rode the tawny Texan hills, A 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 man's whole time he keeps To talk, to think, to @3be@1 of HER; The other fourth he sleeps. To learn what he might know of love, I laughed all constancy to scorn. "Behold you happy, changeful dove! Behold this day, all storm at morn, Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun. Yea, all things change -- the heart, the head, Behold on earth there is not one That changeth not," I said. He drew a glass as if to scan The plain 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 wife." I looked that Texan 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 From out his holster, keen and small. I was convinced. I did not care To argue it at all. But rest I could not. Know I must The story of my Texan guide; His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blessed, immortal bride. I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much. Was she of Texan growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that boasted such Eternal constancy? I could not rest until I knew -- "Now twenty years, my man," said I, "Is a long time." He turned and drew A pistol forth, also a sigh. "'Tis twenty years or more," said he, "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me how. "'Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin Texan land Should stand out like a Winter star. America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea -- 'T would make them truer, nobler men To know how this may be." "It's 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, scowling, shouted in my ear; "I cannot show my wife to you; She's dead this twenty year." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IMPORTANCE OF GREEN by JAMES GALVIN SONG FIRST BY A SHEPHERD by WILLIAM BLAKE LITTLE SNAIL by HILDA CONKLING TO A DOG'S MEMORY by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY THE NEW COLOSSUS by EMMA LAZARUS SHUT OUT by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |