The Cowhand

An old cowhand, his face all gnarled and brown,
For he had seen the dust of many trails
And scorching drives – the freezing winds had blown,
The rains had come, as he pushed toward the rails;
But the rough plains, and wind, and rain, and gales


Had not yet dimmed his eye, nor yet had grown
His wit less sharp – addressing me once said,
‘I’d rather one sweet draught from some deep spring
Than from wide marshes (alkaline and dead
Because their range is far too broadly spread)
All of the purest waters I could bring.
Spread not yourself beyond your narrow bounds:
The steel-tipped arrow may miss; but though straight-sped
It strike, the untipped shaft only rebounds.’