The Sage Brush Saint
In love we gave the name of Saint to him
Because he wrestled with the stubborn sage
In this new land yet spoke no oath ... His wage
Was paid by robin song-gifts; by the slim
White birches swaying near the river's brim;
The slough bright-stitched with Mallards. Each day's page
He signatured with kindly deeds. His gauge
Was love within the heart, not strength of limb.
He knew the ways of wildlings ... Tenderly
He mowed around a clump of grass. To those
Who watched he said,--A flute-song was released!--
"I would not silence a lark symphony!"
When a killdeer rang "God's curfew" at day's close,
He bowed his head until the chiming ceased.