  Storm-birds of autumn With draggled wings: Sleet-beaten, wind-tattered, snow-frozen, Stopping in sheer weariness Between the gnarled red pine trees Twisted in doubt and despair; Whence do you come, pilgrims, Over what snow fields? To what southern province Hidden behind dim peaks, would you go? "Too long were the telling Wherefore we set out; And where we will find rest Only the Gods may tell." |
|
