TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY
VOL. 1. NASHVILLE, TENN., OCTOBER, 1905. NO. 1
Luther Burbank
He touched the spiculed desert—cacti-cursed—
And turned its thorns to figs, its thistles, fruit;
He nodded to the daisy, half immersed
In dwarfing dust, and lo! a lily mute
Rose from the weeds—a perfume with a flute.
And flowers ran to meet him—trailing vine—
And wild hedge-roses—they whose souls had died
Beneath the feet of cattle and of kine—
Sought him—those pallid Magdalenes—and cried
To touch his hem, and so stood glorified.
Trees dwarfed and soulless—fruits with hearts of stone,
Wedded at his word; and in the sacred tryst
Of loves united, that had yearned alone,
Gave to the world the nectar of their bliss
In pitless peaches, crimsoned with a kiss.
Who plants his poems in a berry’s bed,
Or writes, with wild roses, sonnets to the sun,
Hangs pictures on orchard boughs in gold and red,
Makes epics of fruitland where before were none,
Is Poet, Painter, Preacher—Master—all in one!
John Trotwood Moore.