The pilgrim cranes are moving to their south, The clouds are herded pale and rolling slow. One flower is withered in the warm wind's mouth, Whereby the gentle waters always flow. The cloud-fire wanes beyond the lighted trees. The sudden glory leaves the mountain dome. Sleep into night, old anguish mine, and cease To listen for a step that will not come. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DICKENS IN CAMP by FRANCIS BRET HARTE TO JOHN DONNE (1) by BEN JONSON A BETTER ANSWER (TO CHLOE JEALOUS) by MATTHEW PRIOR THE JEWISH MARTYRS by W. V. B. DELIVERANCE by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS THE GHOST by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |