Poems (Whitney)/The cricket to october

by Anne Whitney

THE CRICKET TO OCTOBER.

  The long, pure light, that brings
 To earth her perfect crown of bliss,
Wanes slow—the thoughtful drooping of the grain,
And the faint breath of the earth-loving things
      Say this.

  Oft when the dews at night
 Clasp the cool shadows, all in vain,
I look along the meadows level dark
To see the fire-fly lift her tender light
      Again,

  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.

  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.

  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.

  But sweeter my employ
 In some still hours. I seem to live
Too near the beating of earth's mighty heart,
Not to have learned in part how she can joy
      And grieve!

  'Twas on a night last June,
 Into the clear, bold sky,
The little stars stole each with separate thrill,
And the mossed fir-top woke its mystic rune
      Close by.

  Upon yon westering slope,
 Two glorious human shapes there stood,
Rosy with twilight, listening to my song:
I knew I sang to them of love and hope,
      Life's good.

  The little stars' soft rays
 Again thrill through their realm of peace;
One shadow haunts the slope,—a song I sing
To match the broken music of her days—
      Then cease.