The greens of the Ganges delta foliate.

Of heartless youth made late aware he pled:

Brownies, please come.

To Henry in his sparest times sometimes

the little people spread, & did friendly things;

then he was glad.

Pleased, at the worst, except with the man, he shook

the brightest winter sun.

All the green lives

of the great delta, hours, hurt his migrant heart

in a safety of the steady ’plane. Please, please come.

My friends,—he has been known to mourn,—I’ll die;

live you, in the most wild, kindly, green

partly forgiving wood,

sort of forever and all those human sings

close not your better ears to, while good Spring

returns with a dance and a sigh.