Explore "The Endless Pilgrimage" by John Gould Fletcher on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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. "