Lorsque dans l’herbe mure ancun epi ne bouge,
  Qu’a l’ardeur des rayons crepite le frement,
  Que le coquelicot tombe languissament
  Sous le faible fardeau de sa corolle rouge,

  Tous les oiseaux de l’air out fait taire leur chants;
  Les ramiers paresseux, au plus noir des ramures,
  Somnolents, dans les bois, out cesse leurs murmures
  Loin du soleil muet incendiant les champs.

  Dans le ble, cependant, d’intrepides cigales
  Jetant leurs mille bruits, fanfare de l’ete,
  Out frenetiquement et sans treve agite
  Leurs ailes sur l’airaine de leurs folles cymbales.

  Tremoussantes, deboutes sur les longs epis d’or,
  Virtuoses qui vont s’eteindre avant l’automne,
  Elles poussent au del leur hymne monotone
  Que dans I’ombre des nuits retentisse encore.

  Et rien n’arretera leurs cris intarissables;
  Quand on les chassera de l’avoine et des bles. 
  Elles emigreront sur les buissons brules
  Qui se meurent de soif dans les deserts de sable.

  Sur l’arbuste effeuille, sur les chardons fletris
  Qui laissent s’envoler leur blanche chevelure,
  On reverra l’insecte a la forte encolure,
  Pleine d’ivresse, toujours s’exalter dans ses cris.

  Jusqu’a ce qu’ouvrant l’aile en lambeaux arrachee,
  Exaspere, brulant d’un feu toujours plus pur,
  Son oeil de bronze fixe et tendu vers l’azur,
  II expire en chantant sur la tige sechee.

For the word “encolure” we have no English equivalent; it means the line of the neck and shoulder—­sometimes the general appearance of shape of the body.

“When in the ripening grain field not a single ear of wheat moves; when in the beaming heat the corn seems to crackle; when the poppy languishes and bends down under the feeble burden of its scarlet corolla,

“Then all the birds of the air have hushed their songs; even the indolent doves, seeking the darkest part of the foliage in the tree, have become drowsy in the woods, and have ceased their cooing, far from the fields, which the silent sun is burning.

“Nevertheless, in the wheat, the brave grasshoppers uttering their thousand sounds, a trumpet flourish of summer, have continued furiously and unceasingly to smite their wings upon the brass of their wild cymbal.

“Quivering as they stand upon the long gold ears of the grain, master musicians who must die before the coming of Fall, they sound to heaven their monotonous hymn, which re-echoes even in the darkness of the night.

“And nothing will check their inexhaustible shrilling.  When chased away from the oats and from the wheat, they will migrate to the scorched bushes which die of thirst in the wastes of sand.

“Upon the leafless shrubs, upon the dried up thistles, which let their white hair fall and float away, there the sturdily-built insect can be seen again, filled with enthusiasm, even more and more excited as he cries,