From right to left turning their anxious faces,
Eyeing with greed each gap and open gateway,
Crsring mildly,
The little flock runs onward wearily.

Behind them stalks an urchin cursing shrilly;
He arms his puny strength with a green branch
Wherewith he belabours
The woolly backs of the hindmost runners.

He swaggers in his mastery, yet he knows not
Why he should drive them on and they be driven ;
They are all lost.
And their whole journey is a continual seeking.

Shapes are they moving on a road that circles
With crusty ring a forgotten Paradise,
And all they pass,
Men and trees and houses, are lost as they are.

Now the trees slip away on either hand.
And over the cobbles, between small white houses.
Constant as rain
Comes the quick patter of their tired hoofs.

Still they turn their patient heads and watch
The alleys that open only to fall behind,
Lest one of these
Should hold the longed-for and mysterious ultimate.

Tongues loll out, and little knees drop heavily;
Why must they run on a hot road for ever ?
Patience! surely
In the end are cool winds, dewy herbage, peace.