By E. B. White
At eight of a hot morning, the cicada speaks his firstContinue reading
piece. He says of the world: heat. At eleven of the same day,
still singing, he has not changed his note but enlarged his
theme. He says of the morning: love. In the sultry middle of the
afternoon, when the sadness of love and of heat has shaken him,
his symphonic soul goes into the great movement and he says:
death. But the thing...