I
Ye gods, what heat! Cicada thrills
With mad delight when fairy rills
Submerge the corn in waves of gold,
When, with bowed back and toil untold,
His blade the songless reaper plies,
For in dry throats song gasps and dies.
This hour is thine: then, loud and clear,
Thy cymbals clash, Cicada dear, [[21]]
Let mirrors crack, let belly writhe!
Behold! The man yet darts his scythe,
Whose glitter lifts and drops again
A lightning-flash on ruddy grain.
With grass and water well supplied,
His whetstone dangles at his side;
The whetstone in its case of wood
Has moisture for each thirsty mood;
But he, poor fellow, pants and moans,
The marrow boiling in his bones.
Dost thirst, Cicada? Never mind!
Deep in a young bough’s tender rind
Thy sharp proboscis bores a well,
Whence, narrowly, sweet juices swell.
Ah, soon what honied joys are thine
To quaff a vintage so divine!
In peace? Not always.… There’s a band
Of roving thieves (or close at hand)
Who watched thee draw the nectar up
And beg one drop with doleful cup.
Beware, my love! They humbly crave;
Soon each will prove a saucy knave.
The merest sip?—’Tis set aside.
What’s left?—They are not satisfied.
All must be theirs, who rudely fling
A rakish claw athwart thy wing;
Next on thy back swarm up and down,
From tip to toe, from tail to crown.
[[22]]
On every side they fuss and fret,
Provoking an impatient jet;
Thou leavest soon the sprinkled rind,
Its robber-rascals, far behind;
Thy well purloined, each grins and skips
And licks the honey from her lips.
No tireless, quenchless mendicant
Is so persistent as the Ant;
Wasps, Beetles, Hornets, Drones and Flies,
Sharpers of every sort and size,
Loafers, intent on ousting thee,
All are less obstinate than she.
To pinch thy toe, thy nose to tweak,
To tickle face and loins, to sneak
Beneath thy belly, who so bold?
Give her the tiniest foothold,
The slut will march from side to side
Across thy wings in shameless pride.