Cicala

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, / Making their summer lives one ceaseless song […]

She recalled the old hall, with its storied frescoes—the woods, where so many mornings had passed so happily away—the little river, where they used to launch their light boats, made of the green rushes which grew beside; she recalled the blithe chirp of the cicala in the fragrant grass—and the gleam of the fire-flies, glittering by twilight amid the boughs of the myrtle.