II.
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.