Green frog,
Is your body also
freshly painted?

by Ryƫnosuke Akutagawa.

A Huge Frog And I

A huge frog and I,
staring at each other,
neither of us moves.


Translated by Robert Hass

by Kobayashi Issa.

Mary Had A Little Frog

Mary had a little frog
And it was water-soaked,
But Mary did not keep it long
Because, of course, it croaked!

by Ellis Parker Butler.

Hopping Frog, Hop Here And Be Seen

Hopping frog, hop here and be seen,
I'll not pelt you with stick or stone:
Your cap is laced and your coat is green;
Good bye, we'll let each other alone.
Plodding toad, plod here and be looked at,
You the finger of scorn is crooked at:
But though you're lumpish, you're harmless too;
You won't hurt me, and I won't hurt you.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

The frog by nature is both damp and cold,
Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold;
She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be
Croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly.

Comparison.

The hypocrite is like unto this frog,
As like as is the puppy to the dog.
He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide
To prate, and at true goodness to deride.
He mounts his head as if he was above
The world, when yet 'tis that which has his love.
And though he seeks in churches for to croak,
He neither loveth Jesus nor his yoke.

by John Bunyan.

The finch trills in the apple tree
His: Tiriliree!
A frog climbs slowly up to him,
Up to the treetop's leafy rim
And puffs right up and croaks: "Hallooo,
Ol' chum: see, I c'n do it too!"

And as the bird his song of spring
So sweetly to the world doth sing,
The frog chimes in with sassy tones
And interjects his bassy drones.

The finch exclaims: "O Joy, hurray!
I'll fly away!"
And springs into the azure sky.


"Hah!" cries the frog, "Well so kin I!"
He makes a most ungainly bound
And splats onto the bare hard ground.
He's pancake flat, and that's no joke:
He's croaked his very final croak.

If someone climbs laboriously
Into the branches of a tree
And thinks himself a bird to be:
Wrong is he.

by Wilhelm Busch.

The Arrogant Frog And The Superior Bull

Once, on a time and in a place
Conducive to malaria,
There lived a member of the race
Of
Rana Temporaria
;
Or, more concisely still, a frog
Inhabited a certain bog.

A bull of Brobdingnagian size,
Too proud for condescension,
One morning chanced to cast his eyes
Upon the frog I mention;
And, being to the manner born,
Surveyed him with a lofty scorn.

Perceiving this, the bactrian's frame
With anger was inflated,
Till, growing larger, he became
Egregiously elated;
For inspiration's sudden spell
Had pointed out a way to swell.

'Ha! ha!' he proudly cried, 'a fig
For this, your mammoth torso!
Just watch me while I grow as big
As you-or even more so!'
To which magniloquential gush
His bullship simply answered 'Tush!'

Alas! the frog's success was slight,
Which really was a wonder,
In view of how with main and might
He strove to grow rotunder!
And, standing patiently the while,
The bull displayed a quiet smile.


But ah, the frog tried once too oft
And, doing so, he busted;
Whereat the bull discreetly coughed
And moved away, disgusted,
As well he might, considering
The wretched taste that marked the thing.

THE MORAL: Everybody knows
How ill a wind it is that blows.

by Guy Wetmore Carryl.

Who am I but the Frog--the Frog!
My realm is the dark bayou,
And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log
That the poison-vine clings to--
And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide
Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King--a King!--
For the royal robes I wear--
A scepter, too, and a signet-ring,
As vassals and serfs declare:
And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not
In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night--the Night!--
Under her big black wing
She tells me the tale of the world outright,
And the secret of everything;
For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,
To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows--and blows,--
While I drum on his swollen cheek,
And croak in his angered eye that glows
With the lurid lightning's streak;
While the rushes drown in the watery frown
That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky--the sky--
As clear as a piece of glass;
And I can tell you the how and why
Of the things that come to pass--
And whether the dead are there instead,
Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail--all hail!--
To your Prince on his throne so grim!
Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail
Their heads in the dust to him;
And the wide world sing: Long live the King,
And grace to his royal whim!

by James Whitcomb Riley.