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