The pilgrim cranes
Cyril Meir Scott
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.