Green Children

by Jane Yolen

Dazed they were, and scared,

lying on the cold stones,

their arms and legs green.

Not the dark green of ivy,

not the yellow green of apples

ripe on the summer bough,

nor the deep green of the ocean

where it leans against its bed.

They were the green of leeks,

of new–furled feather fern,

of the early leaf breaking soil.

When they opened their eyes,

their eyes were green, too,

and the little hairs on their arms

were inchworm green.

They spoke a green language

which the trees and flowers knew

but which we did not.

The boy died of a wasting,

the girl lived on,

eating broad beans,

forgetting her green tongue,

growing whiter with each day;

till she was christened

and married and all all white.

Not the white of milk

after the cream is skimmed off,

nor the white of October snow,

nor the white of a spring lily,

waxen and still,

nor the white of sea pearls

formed within the shell.

She was the white of the old moon

that shines over the hall.