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!