Page:From the Garden of Hellas.djvu/31

 :: Cicada, you who chase away desire, Cicada, who beguile our sleepless hours, You song-winged muse of meadows and of flowers, Who are the natural mimic of the lyre, Chirp a familiar melody and sweet, My weight of sleepless care to drive away; Your love-beguiling tune to me now play, Striking your prattling wings, with your dear feet. In early morning I'll bring gifts to you Of garlic ever fresh and drops of dew.