The Cricket to October / 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 firefly lift her tender light
        Again.

From the thick-woven shade,
    Where, on the red-cupped moss, to-day,
A crimson ray alit, the bluebird 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.

~~

Anne Whitney (1821-1915)

from Poems, 1859

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Anne Whitney biography

Vis M, Bush cricket, Kerala, India, 2021. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.