by: John Vance Cheney (1848-1922)
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."
POEMS BY JOHN VANCE CHENEY
"The Pilgrims" is reprinted
from The Century, vol. 54, issue 1 (May 1897).