In the warm hush of the autumnal night
I list one lonely cricket sound its clear
Persistent music, telling that the year
Has passed the summer zenith of delight.
And though I know that soon in gypsy flight
The birds will wing, and all the hills grow drear,
Yet doth my heart keep constant hold on cheer,
Hearkening this tiny minstrel-eremite.
Then keep thy fine-keyed instrument in tune,
O small musician, till the last leaf falls,
And the last blossom shrivels with the rime,
That I may stray through Autumn's ruined halls,
With golden memories for a buoy and boon,
Indifferent to the onward tread of Time!
