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...EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by ALEXANDER POPE GOBLIN MARKET by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE QUIET PILGRIM by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |