O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees
That line the Avenue Louise
Did’st spread in Belgian sun and breeze
Thy buds about,
I come to weep thy destinies
My Brussels Sprout:
Who, on this drear December day,
Rearest above mine Essex clay
Thy wand of buds as green as they
Who spend their Yule
Hearing remoter church-bells play
In St. Gudule.
Hail, noble alien, I see
Thou bear’st in exile and for me
A neat-curl’d row of progeny,
(Not all unlike
Some purse-proud donor’s family,
By John van Eyck)
For me unmindful of thy place
(Comrade of carpets and of lace)
Who class thee with the vulgar race
Of Beet and Bean,
And call thee—to thy very face—
The Knobby-green.