And his gear and his garments were green, this man:
a close-fitting coat that clung to his sides,
a common cloak on top, covered within
with a pure pelt, the exposed lining
vivid with festive fur, and his hood too,
which hung behind his hair on his shoulders;
close-fit leggings below of the same hue
which clung to his calves, and clean spurs beneath
of bright gold, on rich barred bands of silk,
and shoeless shanks where the chevalier rides;
and all his vesture was verily pure verdure,
both the bars of his belt and the other bright stones
that were richly arrayed in his radiant apparel,
all over himself and his saddle, on silken handiwork—
such details, that it’s too tough to tell the half of it,
embroidered with birds and butterflies upon it,
with gay and gaudy greens, and gold all in the midst.
The pendants of his poitrel, the proud crupper,
his mullen mouth bit and all the metal were enameled green,
the stirrups that he stood on stained the same,
and his saddle and its splendid skirts were likewise,
glimmering and glinting all with green stones;
and the stallion he steered and stayed was for certain
            the same,
            a green horse great and thick,
            a steed too strong to restrain,
            in broidered bridle quick—
            to the knight, entirely tame.