THE LAST CRICKET

When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills

And dead leaves crackle under the feet,

When men roll kegs to the cider mills

And chestnuts roast on every street;

When the night sky glows like a hollow shell

Of lustered emerald and pearl,

The kilted cricket knows too well

His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.

Quavering under the polished stars

In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse

The cricket blows a few choked bars,

And puts away his pipe — and stops.