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