Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

It’s early till twoA few cicadae are singing at night in our quiet by-street.Do they never sleep?Shrilly they sing, above the cries of the little girl’s crying next door.Stubborn they sing, above the noise of the midnight train from Chicago That comes and passes and goes, along the edge of the foothills;Patient they sing and duotonous, as the patient clock in my bedroom.Do they never sleep? They are singing Steady, patient, shrilly.When I awake for an instant to see the moon go headlong.To see the clouds go headlong, and the sky go black and silent; To hear the tide of silence come rushing down from the foothills,Filling all of the city – the great black tide of silence.Surging through the city and through the staring high roadThat cups the east-west motors,Drowning the staring high road,Trickling, trickling, tricklingInto the little house on all the quiet by-streets,Trickling into our street, where the cicadae are singing.It is now I hear them singing; Gay, triumphant————Breasting the tide from the foothills. Riding the crests of the shadows. Do they never sleep? For I hear them Later and late and late,When the tide of the shadows in cloven.And the wave of the silence is shattered. And the peace of our by-street is ravished.And under my bedroom window,Up the drive in a hurryHome from fete or dancing,My brother tools in his motor,“Does he never sleep?” they are singing,The stubborn, shrill cicadae,; E. McLOUGHLIN