 | Poems |  |
98
TO THE CICADA.
[MELEAGER.]
Cicada, drunk with drops of dew,What musician equals you
In the rural solitude?
On your perch within the wood,
Scraping to your heart's desire
Dusky sides with notchy feet,
Thrilling, shrilling, fast and sweet,
Like the music of a lyre.
Dear Cicada, I entreat,
Sing the wood-nymphs something new,
So that from his arboured seat
Pan himself may answer you,
Till every inmost glade rejoices
With your loud alternate voices.
And I may listen, and forget
99
Love in this sad heart hath set—
Listen, and forget them all;
And so, with music in mine ears,
Where the plane-tree-shadows steep
The ground with coolness, softly fall
Into a noontide sleep.
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