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."