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...THE ECHOING GREEN, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE OEDIPUS AT COLONUS: OLD AGE by SOPHOCLES LEE TO THE REAR [MAY 12, 1864] by JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON THE DOLLS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS WRITTEN ON A MARBLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |