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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER

Poet Analysis

First Line: HUGE SILVER SNOW-PEAKS, WHITE AS WOOL
Last Line: "SHE'S DEAD THIS MORE THAN TWENTY YEAR."
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."



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