The Cicada In The Firs

By Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Charm of the vibrant, white September sun—
How tower the firs to take it, tranced and still!
Their scant ranks crown the pale, round pasture-hill,
And watch, far down, the austere waters run
Their circuit thro’ the serious marshes dun.
No bird-call stirs the blue; but strangely thrill
The blunt faced, brown cicada’s wing-notes shrill,
A web of silver o’er the silence spun.

O zithern-winged musician, whence it came
I wonder, this insistent song of thine!
Did once the highest string of Summer’s lyre,
Snapt on some tense chord slender as a flame,
Take form again in these vibrations fine
That o’er the tranquil spheres of noon aspire?

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