TO THE CICADA.
Reading edition
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY H. J. CRATE.
Cicada sits upon a sprig, And makes his song resound; For he is happy when a twig Lifts him above the ground. And so am I, when lifted up On hopes delusive wing; I laugh, and quaff the flowing cup, I love, I write, I sing! Should clouds or cares obscure our sky, And all be gloom around, My merry little friend and I Soon tumble to the ground.