A little water trickled down a little pipe Left leaning by the wall when the roofers Had laid the guttering. It went along The earth, asking until it was needed. Now There is a little green thing there, hardly A plant, come of a seed which lay in wait, And whether it has leaves or feathers or Wings, I must wait to discover. It is Not a green I care for: not a green I use In crayon, or in cloth: too rich, too loud With treasure, too pleased with itself. How They’d laugh, the harvesters outside In the fields damp with paddy, their fingers Clutching goodness, if I showed them such a yield! The land is rank with rice this year, the price Is down. And so this little greenling sits In the sun, satisfied with itself, Whatever it is. Whatever it is, It cannot make things as they are any worse, And nobody is the poorer for its pleasure.