Poems (Van Vorst)/Envoi
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.