Envoi
A song of France in the autumn time,
When rooks fly low, then go calling, calling
That summer’s a thing of long ago,
For the golden warmth you would never know,
But the bronze-brown forests tell you so,
And the leaves are falling, falling.
The broad, bright river shines and flows
In sweeps of blue; then goes singing, singing,
Where borders of fern in crimson line
Are aglow like flame in the late sunshine.
In little slim poplars straight and fine,
Mistletoe’s clinging, clinging.
What matter after the sun goes down
If chill creeps out from the forest’s hollow,
Promising winter that earth affrays?
Is not the course of the year always
Toward spring,—and glory of golden days
To follow, follow, follow?
The light of the late year’s in my heart!
It will not linger on death or dying.
Like leaves of the forest, sere and gone,
Are hopes of a future it once looked on;
But Life and Love to goals to be won,
Go flying, flying, flying.