Classic Poem

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 be 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. "