The grey beards wag, the bald heads nod,
And gather thick as bees,
To talk electrons, gases, God,
Old nebulae, new fleas.
Each specialist, each dry-as-dust
And professorial oaf,
Holds up his little crumb of crust
And cries, " Behold the loaf!"

The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;
The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;
——They have marched from far away
——Ere the dawning of the day,
And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.

There's not a man to whisper, there's not a horse to neigh,
Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés;
——They have crept up every street,
——In the market-place they meet,
They are holding every vantage in Cremona.

The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;
The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;

My heart troubled
by the sound of the waves,
I spend the night,
my only friend the moon's light
winnowing through this hut.

The greenest of grass in the long meadow grows;
And the stream, how the stream is dancing!
How cool is its kiss on the little brown toes
That find it a playmate entrancing!
Forgotten the bad days —
The weary and sad days,
Or time all unheeding
That bright hours are speeding,
Forgotten is " bed " by the children in June.

Green trees form shade, the path is covered with moss,
my garden and house are undamaged as I return home.
This wise dynasty has a place for us lazy scholars;
our enlightened ruler has never cast off untalented men like me.
These woods and gullies — surely here I can live out my old age;
the mists and clouds will always protect
the terrace for reading books.
On the east shore of Stone Lake, the road to Heng-t'ang:
how many wild flowers have opened to greet my arrival?

Green star Sirius
Dribbling over the lake;
The stars have gone so far on their road,
Yet we're awake!

Without a sound
The new young year comes in
And is half-way over the lake.
We must begin

Again. This love so full
Of hate has hurt us so,
We lie side by side
Moored — but no,

Let me get up
And wash quite clean
Of this hate —
So green

The great star goes!
I am washed quite clean,
Quite clean of it all.
But e'en

So cold, so cold and clean
Now the hate is gone!
It is all no good,

" Green Spring "

Green spring, start of the second month,
colors of things turning fresh and new.
At this time I take my begging bowl,
in high spirits tramp the streets of town.
Little boys suddenly spot me,
delightedly come crowding around,
descend on me at the temple gate,
dragging on my arms, making steps slow.
I set my bowl on top of a white stone,
hang my alms bag on a green tree limb;
here we fight a hundred grasses,
here we hit the temari ball —
I'll hit, you do the singing!

Green sleeves and tartan ties
Mark my truelove where she lies;
I'll be at her or she rise,
My fiddle and I thegither. —

Be it by the chrystal burn,
Be it by the milk-white thorn,
I shall rouse her in the morn,
My fiddle and I thegither. —

( A BOY AND GIRL ARE SENT TO GATHER RUSHES FOR THATCHING )

Green rushes with red shoots,
Long leaves bending to the wind—
You and I in the same boat
Plucking rushes at the Five Lakes.
We started at dawn from the orchid-island:
We rested under the elms till noon.
You and I plucking rushes
Had not plucked a handful when night came!

" Green leaves, what are you doing
Up there on the tree so high? "
" We are shaking hands with the breezes,
As they go singing by. "

" What, green leaves! Have you fingers? "
Then the Maple laughed with glee:
" Yes, just as many as you have;
Count us, and you will see! "