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Our sister was a feeble hazel twig, While I was grim and grand and evergreen. When all her springtime colours faded, fell, And left her ragged, I was clad in green. In green. In green. And while her bare, white arms Reached up in suppliance, I busied mine Amid my sweeping skirts. She shivered in The winter wind, of course: slim and shining, Pitied. Piteous. I, the fortunate, Looked on in brooding splendour: lucky Evergreen with all my shadows gathered close. And oh, that gnawing in the pit of my Full stomach, looking at her, frail and free. Hate her? No. I know what hate is. Hate Is what they gave me when they saw me green And grand. You too, you know. They hated us– Well-fed, well-dressed. But she was empty. She Had room enough for love. And now, my dear? Now we two are grotesque, forgotten, drained Of blood and pitch and clout and consequence, While she will kiss the sun and taste new spring. I laugh to think her full and splendid. Oh, How little she can know what fullness means! Yes, all the hungry ones will hate her now, And I need never see again in green.