I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
’T is less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music’s own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more...
Broncho dan halts midway of the stream,
Sucking up the water that goes tugging at his knees;
High noon and dry noon,—to-day it doesn’t seem
As if the country ever knew the blessing of a breeze.
A torn felt hat with the brim cockled up,
A dip form the saddle—there you are—
It ’s the brew of old Snake River in a cowboy’s drinking-cup—...
I Fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
’T is less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music’s own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more...
