The Pilgrims Poem by John Vance Cheney

'WHITHER, 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.'