Sleep in love, wicked smithy of cicadas.
In the couchgrass, which shall provide your covering,
the stout cicada shall joyfully sing
for you, his small cymbals skillfully played.
The dew will lave with morning tears each green blade.
The white lily of the valley makes a pretty sheet.
Sleep in love, wicked smithy of cicadas.
In weeping troops the storm clouds parade.
The snub-nosed muse shall pose here in the glade.
On your tongue, black as an arrow,
these rhymes still pierce to the pallid marrow.
Sleep in love, wicked smithy of cicadas.