Then must the Kings be journeying from the West.
So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest,
Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed
(Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!)
And on, and on—and now, at times, it seemed
Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed.
But ever of enchanted weft they proved,
On sunset’s pageant field emblazoned low;
And caravans, still moving as we moved,
At length, for straggling olive trees would show.