Let us turn aside and rest there from the fury of the gale;
For the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
Faster—faster, Pedro mio!—for the blood is in my eyes!
I would reach the blessed water ere it o’er my vision dries!
For it thunders in my temples the tumultuous refrain
Of a mountain torrent singing to the first November rain!
Stumble—stumble—onward—farther from the desiccating hail
Where the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
We have fallen, Pedro mio! and the vision fair is gone;
But above us and around us yet the tempest hurtles on;