Thou, whose voice in the grove’s silence is heard aloft,
While thou drinkest the tear-drops of the heavenly dews,
Thy sweet music, Cicada,
In thine ecstasy, pouring forth.

Come, come, Summer on light wheels is advacing fast,
While the hastening suns move, be they hail’d but chid
For their tarrying too long,
When the frosts of the winter flee.

As days dawn in their joy, so they depart in haste,—“
So flee, speedily flee; speedily speeds our bliss,
Too short are its abidings,—“
But grief lingeringly dwells with man.

Translation by James J. Mertz

Quæ populeâ fumma fedens comâ;
Cæli roriferis ebria lacrymis,
Et te voce, CICADA,
Et mutum recreas nemus.

Poſt longas hicmes, dum nimium brevis;
Æftas fe lenibus præcipitat rotis,
Feſtinos, age, lento
Soles excipe jurgio.

Ut fe quæque dies attulit optima;
Sic fe quæque rapit: milla fuit fatiß
Unquam longa voluptas:
Longus fæpius eſt dolor.