WE bless you, cicada, When out of the tree-tops Having sipped of the dew Like a king you are singing: And indeed you are king of These meadows around us, And the woodland's all yours. Man's dear little neighbour, And midsummer's envoy, The Muses all love you, And Apollo himself does -- He gave you your music. Age cannot wither you, Tiny philosopher, Earth-child, musician; The world, flesh and devil Accost you so little, That you might be a god. |