As though this cool September rain
The still green woodlands dream of spring.
The eyes, grown dim to present things,
Have keener sight for by-gone years,
And sweet and clear in deafening ears
The bird that sang at morning sings.
Dear comrades, scattered wide and far
Send from their homes their kindly word;
And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,
Smile on us from some heavenly star.