 | Poems |  |
476
TO A CRICKET.
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will;
For thy song with summer's filled;
Filled with sunshine; filled with June;
Fire-light echo of that, noon
Hears in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May;
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees and birds and flowers away,
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!
| Poems | |