Migrants

No colour yet appears
On trees still summer fine,
The hill has brown sheaves yet,
Bare earth is hard and set;
But autumn sends a sign
In this as in other years.

For birds that flew alone
And scattered sought their food
Gather in whirring bands;--
Starlings, about the lands
Spring cherished, summer made good,
Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.

But above that windy sound
A deeper note of fear
All daylight without cease
Troubles the country peace;
War birds, high in the air,
Airplanes shadow the ground.

Seawards to Africa
Starlings with joy shall turn,
War birds to skies of strife,
Where Death is ever at Life;
High in mid-air may burn
Great things that trouble day.

Their time is perilous,
Governed by Fate obscure;
But when our April comes
About the thatch-eaved homes,--
Cleaving sweet air, the sure
Starlings shall come to us.