The Endless Pilgrimage

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.”