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.