A-chatter in the curling fronds, the wet-leafed canopy, the ponds,
Among the tangled twining root of every vine-choked tree’s broad foot,
Wild birds spread out their neon wings in this green palace of such kings,
Shout to a sun that’s seldom seen, deep in this hot palace of green,
But bring a blaze that’s all their own, as bright as such a place has known.
Take flight! Take wing! Aim for the sun–race with them upward, every one,
Above the canopy, to see whether a sun can really be;
And if it’s not, let no bleak night deter a second from our flight:
Upward and forward, light or none, we always ought to seek the sun–
And if not found, our calling is that we must light these palaces.