Only the sea fogs, to and fro,
Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.
Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,
Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones,
And tracked o'er the desert faint and far,
Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.
Thus they stood, as the sun went down
Over the foot-hills bare and brown;
Thus they looked to the South—wherefrom
The pale-face medicine man should come.
Not in anger, or in strife,
But to bring—so ran the tale—
The welcome springs of eternal life,
The living waters that should not fail.
Said one: "He will come like Manitou,
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew."
Said another: "He will come full soon
Out of the round-faced watery moon."
And another said: "He is here!" and lo—
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow—
Out from the desert's blinding heat
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The Miracle of Padre Junipero.
