Migrants

Hello, whom have we here Under the orange-trees, Where the old convent wall Looks to the turquoise seas?

In his jacket of olive green He slips from bough to bough, With a familiar air No venue could disavow.

Good-day to you, quiet sir! We have been friends before, When lilacs were in bloom By the lovely Scituate shore.

When the surly hordes of snow Came down on the trains of the wind, Two sojourners, it seems, Were of a single mind.

Both from the storm and gray, The stress of the northern year, Seeking the peace of the world, Found tranquillity here.

Here where there is no haste, Lead we, each in his way, Undistracted a while, The slow sweet life of a day.

Busy, contented, and shy, Through the green shade you go; So unobtrusive and fair A mien few mortals know.

It needs not the task be hard, Nor the achievement sublime, If only the soul be great, Free from the fever of time.

And your glad being confirms The ancient Bonum est Nos hic esse of earth, With serene, unanxious zest,

Whether far North you fare, When too brief spring once more Visits the stone-walled fields Beside the Scituate shore,

Or here in an endless June Under the orange-trees, Where the old convent wall Looks to the turquoise seas.