Acres of mangrove¹， crowding the sea-streaked marsh²，

    Acres of mangrove， wading³ toward the beaches，

    And here and there a milky-white bloom tossed

    On fragile boughs⁴ above the flooded reaches.

    Mangrove thrusts deep in salty mud，

    Balances uneasily upon its three-pronged roots，

    Huddles⁵ from wind in its dissonance of leaves.

    Tempest and drought it has withstood，

    This straggling orchard⁶ that bears no fruits，

    This field where none will garner⁷ sheaves.

    Sucking life up from the acrid⁸ marsh，

    Drawing life down from the burning sun，

    All the year offers of crude and harsh

    There between sea and shore it has known.

    Wave and glare， sea-urge， sea-drift，

    It has been their victim， proved their power，

    Persisting bleakly⁹ for one end alone-

    Through an unheeded hour

    Briefly¹⁰， awkwardly， to lift

    This frail¹¹， inconsequent flower.