Faint in the moonshine sounds the chorus of insect-voices:
To-night the sadness of autumn speaks in their plaintive tone.
I never can find repose in the chilly nights of autumn,
Because of the pain I hear in the insects’ plaintive song.
How must it be in the fields where the dews are falling thickly!
In the insect-voices that reach me I hear the tingling of cold.
Never I dare to take my way through the grass in autumn:
Should I tread upon insect-voices[15]--what would my feelings be!
The song is ever the same, but the tones of the insects differ,
Maybe their sorrows vary, according to their hearts.