Classic Poem

Low hang the eaves of the thatched hut,
Green, green grows the grass beside the brook.
To whose family belongs that tipsy white-haired couple,
Chatting and merry-making in the dulcet accents of the south?

Their eldest son is hoeing the bean-field east of the brook,
The second is busy weaving a hen-coop;
But the one they think most lovable is the youngest, that scamp of a boy:
Lo! he is sprawled on the bank peeling lotus pods!