The Little Cricket

by Samuel Francis Smith

You sweet little cricket,
    Amid the night dew,
While the moon shines so brightly,
    I'll listen to you.
I love your dull chirping,
    Your shrill monotone;
You soothe, with your music,
    This bosom so lone.

Your voice, like the breezes
    That mournfully play,
When the red leaves of autumn
    Look gaudy and gay,
Tells of joys now departed,
    No more to return,
Of summer hopes blasted,
    Of fair flowers torn.

Sweet cricket, thy music
    Will quickly be still,
When the tempests of winter
    Roar loud on the hill;
But I go when the storm comes,
    Where all my friends dwell,—
No more shall my heart say
    To gladness farewell!

July 25, 1831