THE PILGRIMS

by: John Vance Cheney (1848-1922)

"HITHER, pilgrims, whither bound,

Passing slowly with no sound?"
One by one they journey by,

Gliding, gliding silently;

Slowly, slowly, dim and gray,

Hold they on their ghostly way.

 

"Hither, children, making May

Of the solemn autumn day,

Who were they but now went by

While the dead weeds gave a sigh?

Who the pilgrims, dim and gray,

Stopped and looked upon your play?"

 

"We have wandered many hours
Here where some one hides the flowers;

We heard laughter in the grass,

But we saw no pilgrim pass."
Whispers one, -- pale-cheeked is she,--

"Shapes went by; they beckoned me."

• Purchase books by American poets