Green grass,
you, whom the painter crushed
beneath his feet,
as he stopped to wet his brush
on the trembling dewdrops
upon your blades.
you, whom the painter crushed
beneath his feet,
as he stopped to wet his brush
on the trembling dewdrops
upon your blades.
Green grass,
peeping through the warm earth
your tender sprigs turn greener
divining his nubile canvas.
Green grass,
why do you pout and preen
impatient to be heard and seen?
He is the painter with his golden brush,
ready to portray your dream.
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