Of lonely cricket’s evening tale,
Hid in the window sill.
Hark! in the closet, tick—tick—tick!
It is the death-watch’s ghostly click;
I wish that worm were still!
If there be ghosts,—ah, who can tell?
This place, this hour, would suit them well;
Perhaps some may be near!
I see naught with my eyes that’s real,
Yet in my spirit’s sense I feel