The grass is greener on the other side And higher at the other shores is tide What can be more unsparing Than a contast Of what could be and what we must. When moving furious and fast Between two many roses Has little prince once ever noticed Which one of them is redder Than the other hundred? If it is always greener behind the fence Then, maybe, press your face Between the iron bars And start looking backwards, To see what colour is now the grass. And does a bass Sounds like soprano whispering? When crossing from the left to right And leaving old grass out of sight Will it change colour turning green And varnish all eternal spleen?