[25]O, ghostly Spanish walls,

[25]

Where brown Franciscans glide,

Is there no voice that calls

Across the Great Divide,

To pilgrims on their way

Along the Santa Fe?

Then let your Pullman cars

Go roaring to the West,

Till, watched by lonelier stars,

The cactus lifts its crest.

There, on that painted plain,

One ghost will rise again.

Majestic and forlorn,

Wreck of a dying race,

The Red Man, half in scorn,

Shall raise his haughty face,

Inscrutable as the sky,

To watch our ghosts go by.

What? Is earth dreaming still?

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