To a cicada

How happy we think you are,

sweet cicada in love!

For as soon as you have drunken

a little dew

from the bushes,

happy as a powerful princess,

your soft voice makes

mountains and forests tremble.

Everything in the country,

everything in the mountains,

is yours. You please the ploughman

best, for his toil

neither insults nor damages himself

or his ploughing.

All men love your goodness,

sweet prophetess of summer.

The Muse loves you, and so does

Apollo, who made you

to sing so sweetly. Age

never wounds you as it does us.