Classic Poem

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 be of HER ;
The other fourth he sleeps.

To learn what he might know of love,
I laughed all constancy to scorn.
" Behold yon 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. "