  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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