Classic Poem

It was underneath the stars, the little peeking stars,
That we lay and dreamed of Eden in the hills;
We were neither sad nor gay, but just wondering while we lay,
What a mighty lot of space creation fills.

Our fire was just a spark; dot of red against the dark,
And around the fire an awful lot of night.
The purple, changing air was as quiet as a prayer,
And the moon came up and froze the mountains white.

There was nothing much to say, unless my pal there, while he lay,
Got to thinking of his bronc-and-saddle days,
And a woman that he knew. He believes that dreams come true,
And they do, if I'm believing what he says.

It was Overland's delight, when we quit the road at night,
And the birds were folding up their music-bars,
Just to smoke a little bit; rub his chin a while, and sit
Like a Hobo statue, looking at the stars.

Then he'd cough to clear his throat; strike a kind of chesty note,
Not like preachers—but just deep down near his heart;
And I think his dreaming eyes saw way up to Paradise;
Then, remembering me, he'd nod his head and start.

It was all about some woman that he loved long, long ago,
And he loved her in a kind of way I can't just understand;
But if I could talk like he could, you could have my bundle, Bo!
For he talked like this, and, pardner, it was grand:

“Her hair was like the sun that drowns the poppy fields at noon,
And there was something in her eyes too deep and pure to tell;
Her lips were like the red of buds that greet the dawn of June,
Blush of roses on a sun-lit lily-bell.

“A little motion of her hand was more than words can say;
It spoke a language all its own in pretty gesturing;
And when she smiled the flowers sang to see her smile that way;
It made a man hold up his head and feel himself a king!

“I met her riding down the trail when morning-dew was young;
Her pony's feet were castanets that clipt a happy tune.
Somehow, I took my hat off, just as if an angel sung,
As she came riding down the trail to greet the dawn of June.

“She nodded, smiled, and rode along, brave-eyed and bright and sweet;
I stood and watched her in the sun and saw the silver stream
Run down across the cañon trail; and heard her pony's feet
Like castanets, now far away, still ringing through my dream.

“Click, clink! a passing melody that melted in the air. …
And in my heart a whispering like meadow-grass at night,
When some lone wind is talking to the sleepy daisies there,
Just wavering and wondering and waiting for the light.

“Since then I've told her stories while she laughed and clapped her hands;
Of Yuma and Sonora in the rich red days of old;
Since then I've ridden far for her delight, in haunted lands,
Where desert ledges crumble and the sand is specked with gold.

“Have you ever loved a woman like the meadow loves the sun,
Just contented to be living just because she's living too?
If you have, and never spoken, it's the best thing you have done;
Then you know there is a heaven that is not beyond the blue.

“I loved—but did not tell her. It came time for me to go
Almost anywhere, for her sake; so I drifted up along
The northern trails where winter locks the passes deep in snow,
But I dreamed of southern ranges and a land of sun and song,

“Where a trail runs toward the meadows; where the poppy-fields unfold;
Where the mocking-bird is listening to the patter of a tune
Rung by mellow cañon echoes in a melody of gold,
As she rides along the morning down to greet the dawn of June.”

Yes: 't was Overland's delight, when we quit the road at night,
And the birds were folding up their music-bars,
Just to smoke a little bit; rub his chin a while and sit
Like a Hobo statue, looking at the stars.

There was nothing to be said—for the talk had drifted dead,
And his dreams were done of bronc-and-saddle days
And the woman that he knew. He believes that dreams come true,
And I almost think they do—from what he says.