Death of the Cicada

When the ripe blonde stalks wave on the plain,

bending heavily under the wide sleeping sky,

and seem to say that the time is near

when the golden streams of wheat will flow,

like condemned prisoners, offering their heads full

of winter's hope, rocked in enchantment,

forgetful of the coming harvest.

The wheat that is to die listens vaguely

to the cicada's quavering song.

Here come the reapers! Their screeching scythes

cut down the stalks and uncrown summer.

Faithfully sharing the fate of the wheat, sad, mute,

the cicada falls asleep as a poet will die,

tired of living but proud of having sung!