The Caravan

By George Sterling

Still, still I see, by dawn or eventide,
    The city of illusion, far away.
    I thought to find it nearer day by day,
But day by day the sands are blank and wide,
    And year by year, with hope alone for guide,
    I watch its iris slowly fade to grey,
And where the journey ends I cannot say,

Nor these strange folk who travel at my side.
Perhaps we shall not reach those distant halls,
    On which the sunset or the moonlight falls
Weirdly and vast, sowing an inner flame. . . .
    Within our evening fire's concealing light,
    The talk of where we go and whence we came
Begins, then dies upon the desert night.

Bibliography Entry