A VISIT FROM THE CRICKET

Thou shrill-voiced cricket there

In yonder corner,

Thou remindest me

Of joys departed, and of fair

And fallen summer. O little mourner,

Cease thy pensive fluting,

Lest a flood of melancholy,

Sad as thine,

That to my heart is suiting,

Encompass me — it is unholy

Thus to pine

For fallen joys or days departed,

E'en though thou art so broken-hearted,

For moments are divine.

Silent art thou?— thanks to thee,

O little cricket

Underneath my chair;

Thanks to thee — yet would I see

Thy shadow less — out to yon thicket!

There let thy dull repining

Drive where the winds are driven,

Nor deign to bring

Thy sorrows back — let such be given

To those in shades reclining

Who love to sing,

With thee, of dear departed Summer,

And hear again her sad funereal drummer,

Thou little, mournful thing.

One moment stay — why comest thou

With doleful ditty

Unbidden to my room;

Wee, dusky mourner, do not go,

But say — what is it claims thy pity,

And sets thee telling, telling

Such a solemn story

So to me,

As if there knelling, knelling

Of some departed glory

Dear to thee?

O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle,

And admit life is a riddle,

And Heaven holds the key.

Thou mindest not; for hark!— again

Resounds thy racket

Shriller than before;

Singst thou this sad strain

As if befitting to thy ebon jacket,

With carvings curious,

And a color glossy,

Like old wine —

Tiny thing, be not so furious

And uneedful noisy;

Cease to pine

For something fled — for joys or hopes departed,

Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,

O mourner most divine.