Thou shrill-voiced cricket there In yonder corner, Thou remindest me Of joys departed, and of fair
And fallen summer. O little mourner, Cease thy pensive fluting, Lest a flood of melancholy, Sad as thine,
That to my heart is suiting, Encompass me — it is unholy Thus to pine For fallen joys or days departed,
E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, For moments are divine. Silent art thou?— thanks to thee, O little cricket
Underneath my chair; Thanks to thee — yet would I see Thy shadow less — out to yon thicket! There let thy dull repining
Drive where the winds are driven, Nor deign to bring Thy sorrows back — let such be given To those in shades reclining
Who love to sing, With thee, of dear departed Summer, And hear again her sad funereal drummer, Thou little, mournful thing.
One moment stay — why comest thou With doleful ditty Unbidden to my room; Wee, dusky mourner, do not go,
But say — what is it claims thy pity, And sets thee telling, telling Such a solemn story So to me,
As if there knelling, knelling Of some departed glory Dear to thee? O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle,
And admit life is a riddle, And Heaven holds the key. Thou mindest not; for hark!— again Resounds thy racket
Shriller than before; Singst thou this sad strain As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, With carvings curious,
And a color glossy, Like old wine — Tiny thing, be not so furious And uneedful noisy;
Cease to pine For something fled — for joys or hopes departed, Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, O mourner most divine.
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