WE bless you, cicada, When out of the tree-tops Having sipped of the dew Like a king you are singing: And indeed you are king of These meadows around us, And the woodland's all yours. Man's dear little neighbour, And midsummer's envoy, The Muses all love you, And Apollo himself does -- He gave you your music. Age cannot wither you, Tiny philosopher, Earth-child, musician; The world, flesh and devil Accost you so little, That you might be a god. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAVE PAINTING by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRDS OF VIETNAM by HAYDEN CARRUTH GLAMOUR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO TIME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FRAGMENT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: TENNESSEE CLAFLIN SHOPE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |