The Fable of the Cicada and the Ant 



Let mirrors crack, let belly writhe ! 

 Behold ! The man yet darts his scythe, 

 Whose glitter lifts and drops again 

 A lightning-flash on ruddy grain. 



With grass and water well supplied, 

 His whetstone dangles at his side; 

 The whetstone in its case of wood 

 Has moisture for each thirsty mood; 

 But he, poor fellow, pants and moans, 

 The marrow boiling in his bones. 



Dost thirst, Cicada ? Never mind ! 

 Deep in a young bough's tender rind 

 Thy sharp proboscis bores a well, 

 Whence, narrowly, sweet juices swell. 

 Ah, soon what honied joys are thine 

 To quaff a vintage so divine! 



In peace ? Not always. . . . There's a band 

 Of roving thieves (or close at hand) 

 Who watched thee draw the nectar up 

 And beg one drop with doleful cup. 

 Beware, my love ! They humbly crave ; 

 Soon each will prove a saucy knave. 



The merest sip? 'Tis set aside. 

 What's left? They are not satisfied. 

 All must be theirs, who rudely fling 

 A rakish claw athwart thy wing; 

 Next on thy back swarm up and down, 

 From tip to toe, from tail to crown. 



