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;