L'envoi

There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,And the ricks stand gray to the sun,Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,And your English summer's done."You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song -- how long! how long?Pull out on the trail again!