'TIs the island of the orange, of the yucca and the palm,
Where the white-armed, laughing beaches lave in coves of foam-edged calm,
And the shy flamingo rises like a winged oriflamme.

'Tis the home of endless summer, by cool trade-winds overblown;
'Tis the Eden of the Ocean lying lovely and alone,
But trailed over by the serpent, and with sin and ruin sown.

'Tis the island of the mango, the banana and the cane;
'Tis the land of beauty blighted by the spoiler's cruel reign;
'Tis the haunt of vultures flocking to the devastated plain.

'Tis the isle of birds and blossoms, sea-girt realm of bloom and song;
Land of yet unconquered freemen who have striven and suffered long;
Land awaiting its redemption from four centuries of wrong!

Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him—and, dreaming, whispers, "Follow!"

Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;
White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved human face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath,
Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sunripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan- tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh, Follow, Follow!"

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.