The Gleaner

By George Sterling

Of all we love or long for, what can last?
    The brief arbutus shines where shone the snow;
    The panic winds o'er dying flowers blow;
Far in the quiet woodland dies the blast.
Soft on the forehead of the hill are cast
    The fleeting splendors of the afterglow;
    Where sang the brook the desert lichens grow.
Who runs, shall find the feet of Change are fast.

Yet in the solitude of all that died
    A Shadow roams the somber fields, long known,
        Where ashen gardens house the pilgrim sands,
And mournful stars behold at eventide
    How wanders peaceless Memory alone,
        Seeking in dust the vanished lips and hands.

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