The
Mystic Mid-Region
The Deserts of the Southwest
By
Arthur J. Burdick
With 54 Illustrations
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1904
Copyright, 1904
BY
ARTHUR J. BURDICK
Published, April, 1904
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
Kingdom of solitude, thou desert vast,
The keeper thou of secrets of the past,
For what, O Desert, was thy land accurs'd?
Thy rivers dried, thy fields consumed by thirst?
Thy plains in mute appeal unfruitful lie
Beneath a burning, stern, relentless sky
That brings its showers of life-renewing rain
Unto the mount, but ne'er unto the plain.
The keeper thou of secrets of the past,
For what, O Desert, was thy land accurs'd?
Thy rivers dried, thy fields consumed by thirst?
Thy plains in mute appeal unfruitful lie
Beneath a burning, stern, relentless sky
That brings its showers of life-renewing rain
Unto the mount, but ne'er unto the plain.
What secret guardest thou, O Desert dread?
What mystery hidest of the ages dead?
Doth some strange treasure lie within thy breast
That thou wouldst guard from man's most eager quest?
Or doth there in thy solitude abide
Some mystery that Nature fain would hide?
Some secret of the great creative plan
Too deep, too awful for the mind of man?
What mystery hidest of the ages dead?
Doth some strange treasure lie within thy breast
That thou wouldst guard from man's most eager quest?
Or doth there in thy solitude abide
Some mystery that Nature fain would hide?
Some secret of the great creative plan
Too deep, too awful for the mind of man?
O Desert, with thy hot, consuming breath,
Whose glance is torture and whose smile is death,
Realm of the dewless night and cloudless sun,
Burn on until thine awful watch be done.
Then may the shifting winds their off'rings bring—
The yielding clouds their life-fraught dews to fling
Upon thy yearning, panting, scorching breast,
That with abundance thou at last be bless'd.
Whose glance is torture and whose smile is death,
Realm of the dewless night and cloudless sun,
Burn on until thine awful watch be done.
Then may the shifting winds their off'rings bring—
The yielding clouds their life-fraught dews to fling
Upon thy yearning, panting, scorching breast,
That with abundance thou at last be bless'd.
So, where thy wasted sands now barren lie,
Green fields may some day meet a smiling sky.
Where now but lurks grim, ghastly, burning death,
The violet may shed its fragrant breath.
It hath been said—a sure, divine decree—
That in the solitude shall gladness be;
And, by that One from whom all goodness flows,
That thou shalt bloom, O Desert, as the rose.
Green fields may some day meet a smiling sky.
Where now but lurks grim, ghastly, burning death,
The violet may shed its fragrant breath.
It hath been said—a sure, divine decree—
That in the solitude shall gladness be;
And, by that One from whom all goodness flows,
That thou shalt bloom, O Desert, as the rose.
A. J. B.
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