On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:
The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again
On the hills a million people, A million sparrows, nest,
Like a confused migration That's had to light and rest,...
Too soon you wearied of our tears
And then you danced with spangled feet,
Leading Belshazzar's chattering courtA-tinkling through the shadowy street
With mead they came, with chants of shame
The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him
I
HE
US
(August 3, 1492
Hush little baby, don't say a word,
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring.