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.