 | Song and Story |  |
151
CRICKET-CRIES.
If the autumn winds are all
In a tender sort of swoon,
You can hear the cricket call,
Any autumn afternoon;
And should you heed him, soon
You will hear, it may befall,
Dreamy language wing its way
Through his low and dreamy lay:
In a tender sort of swoon,
You can hear the cricket call,
Any autumn afternoon;
And should you heed him, soon
You will hear, it may befall,
Dreamy language wing its way
Through his low and dreamy lay:
“By the mist-empurpled skies,
By the red leaves lying sere,
I know that Summer dies
In the lands that held her dear.
And with his sparkling spear,
With his icy-brilliant eyes,
Snowy-bearded Winter speeds
On his whitest of white steeds!
By the red leaves lying sere,
I know that Summer dies
In the lands that held her dear.
And with his sparkling spear,
With his icy-brilliant eyes,
Snowy-bearded Winter speeds
On his whitest of white steeds!
152
“Oh, the days will shortly be,
When here I must not cheep,
But in some black chink and wee
Of some old fireside creep,
To sleep and wake and sleep,
By the great log's yellow glee,
And slowly find, no doubt,
All the family-secrets out.
When here I must not cheep,
But in some black chink and wee
Of some old fireside creep,
To sleep and wake and sleep,
By the great log's yellow glee,
And slowly find, no doubt,
All the family-secrets out.
“From the hearth-fire's viewless flail
I can see the spark-chaff fly,
Ere that ashy film and pale
Furs the embers, by and by.
How much better taste have I
Than my relative the snail,
Toasting here, as fate appoints,
My extravagant hip-joints!
I can see the spark-chaff fly,
Ere that ashy film and pale
Furs the embers, by and by.
How much better taste have I
Than my relative the snail,
Toasting here, as fate appoints,
My extravagant hip-joints!
“Hear the clock's quick tick, above
Even the bitter north-wind's roar;
Hear the old grandam, like a dove,
Coo her surreptitious snore;
Hear the lovers laugh—and more
See the lovers making love!
And hear the purr of that
Tawny sybarite, our cat!
Even the bitter north-wind's roar;
Hear the old grandam, like a dove,
Coo her surreptitious snore;
Hear the lovers laugh—and more
See the lovers making love!
And hear the purr of that
Tawny sybarite, our cat!
153
“How I hearken, while I bask,
To the hum the kettle wakes!
In his dull prosaic task
How much merriment he takes!
Ah, for me that kettle makes
All the nightingale I ask,
Except it be, mayhap,
The pine-log's bubbling sap!
To the hum the kettle wakes!
In his dull prosaic task
How much merriment he takes!
Ah, for me that kettle makes
All the nightingale I ask,
Except it be, mayhap,
The pine-log's bubbling sap!
“Why does Mabel grow so pink
If she has not had a kiss?
It is fine, you lovers think,
To be making love like this;
Yet a pleasant blaze, I wis,
And a cosey little chink,
Bring quite as much content
To the cricket temperament!
If she has not had a kiss?
It is fine, you lovers think,
To be making love like this;
Yet a pleasant blaze, I wis,
And a cosey little chink,
Bring quite as much content
To the cricket temperament!
“While the goldenrods, in seas,
Plume the lanes and dales with gold,
While a glory smites the trees
And the sumach-leaves burn bold,
In my longing heart I hold
These, and pictures sweet as these,
Waiting days more bleak and drear,
That my fireside voice can cheer!
Plume the lanes and dales with gold,
While a glory smites the trees
And the sumach-leaves burn bold,
In my longing heart I hold
These, and pictures sweet as these,
Waiting days more bleak and drear,
That my fireside voice can cheer!
154
“Oh for winds of solemn tune!
Oh for chilly-lighted skies!
Since she cannot die too soon,
Oh, too slow the summer dies!” ...
Now in just this dreamy wise,
On an autumn afternoon,
If your faith be good and strong,
You can hear the cricket's song!
Oh for chilly-lighted skies!
Since she cannot die too soon,
Oh, too slow the summer dies!” ...
Now in just this dreamy wise,
On an autumn afternoon,
If your faith be good and strong,
You can hear the cricket's song!
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