Indian Paint Brush

Beautiful...Indian Paint Brush,
On the low inclines.
Rising in glory...above the sage,
And out where the wild-wind whines.

Like brushes turned up-side down,
All dipped in paint.
That grow on dry, and thirsty soil,
With blossoms...quaint.

Plumed like a majorette,
Where sage has greyed.
Down through the upland draw,
As if in parade.

Wild-flowers of the mountains,
Stretching out in such a way.
For all to see your humble station,
And your brilliance in array.

O Indian Paint Brush,
So wide your rootlet grows.
And off in the stretch of distance,
So bright...your colors show.


E.P. 1908 - 1989