Poems (Whitney)/The cricket to october

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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 darkTo see the fire-fly lift her tender light      Again,
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  From the thick-woven shade, Where, on the red-cupped moss to-day,A crimson ray alit, the blue-bird sendsOne 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 singTo match the broken music of her days—      Then cease.
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