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the cricket to october.
From the thick-woven shade,
Where, on the red-cupped moss to-day,
A crimson ray alit, the blue-bird sends
One melancholy note up the brown glade
This way.
Where, on the red-cupped moss to-day,
A crimson ray alit, the blue-bird sends
One melancholy note up the brown glade
This way.
Last night, I saw an eft
Crawl to the worm's forsaken bier,
To die there, as I think:—beetle nor bee,
Nor the ephemera's ethereal weft
Sport here.
Crawl to the worm's forsaken bier,
To die there, as I think:—beetle nor bee,
Nor the ephemera's ethereal weft
Sport here.
Yet great has been life's zest.
Almost how the grass grows, I know,—
And the ant sleeps; the busy summer long,
I have kept the secret of the ground-bird's nest
Below.
Almost how the grass grows, I know,—
And the ant sleeps; the busy summer long,
I have kept the secret of the ground-bird's nest
Below.
But sweeter my employ
In some still hours. I seem to live
In some still hours. I seem to live
