  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. |
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